The Rhodora
On being asked, whence is the flower.

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh
Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson


Went for a quick walk on Comstock Knoll here at Cornell Plantations to admire the Rhododendron in flower. Sure was an impressive sight to see, with a great deal of diversity.

Some of the ones above are Rhododendron yakushimanum. This species makes an impressive specimen, and is easily recognized by the very downy, thick fuzz on the undersides of the leaves.

Another show-stopper is a selection known as 'Lodestar.' It has light pinkish white flowers with golden/bronze throats. The bees were working these flowers like they were crack cocaine!

"Pleasures are like poppies spread--
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed"
Robert Burns, Tam o' Shanter

There is something about the ephemeral poppy that I have always found captivating. The rich, luscious red petals of these Papaver orientale are both bold and dainty, powerful but lasting but a blink of an eye. Upon seeing this meadow last weekend while visiting Chanticleer, one of the most spectacular gardens I've had the pleasure of strolling, I had to resist the urge to plunge into the mass of red, roll around, and take a nap. It was THAT tempting. You know, the Wicked Witch of the West used the alure of the same plant to put Dororthy and her companions to sleep. Luckily for Oz and the Yellow Brick Gang, the effect was but temporary. Perhaps if the antagonist had planted the more potent Papaver somniferum (the opium poppy), Dot and pals would have been incapacitated for a longer period of time?

A study in Yellow
















Caragana pygmaea (dwarf peashrub)

Doronicum orientale (leapordsbane)

Mahonia aquifolium (Oregon holly-grape)

















Kerria japonica 'Pleniflora'

A marvel of shapes...

Two plants, both with pure white flowers, yet vastly different forms.















Dicentra spectabilis 'Alba'

Rubus x tridel 'Benenden'

It is lilac time...

So far on this blog, I have waxed and waned about this pleasant plant, or that noble tree. I've been pretty positive about these green organisms and one might assume that I love each and every plant. But, it isn't always the case, and in fact I can be a plant snob from time to time. In an effort to be fair and balanced, I will reflect on a plant that I could really care less about.

See, I have a love-hate relationship with lilacs. For most of the year, the common lilac (Syringa vulgaris) sits idly while its peers provide ample shade, or develop interesting bark, or flower without effort for weeks on end, or produce fruits that dazzle the eye. In many landscapes, the lilac goes unnoticed, serving as a backdrop of green filler, supporting the more interesting and ornamental plants placed in the foreground. But, then comes May, when this one-shot-wonder drips with floral attribute, and the heady aroma of the blooms intoxicate all within a hundred feet. We 'oh' and we 'ah', we attend lilac festivals, we marvel at its beauty, we proclaim the plant best in show.

And then, the flowers fade and fall off. The scents drift away. If we are lucky, we are left with a pile of sticks with plastic green things attached to them.

We yawn.


A friend of mine feels the same way. Actually, whereas I only wrinkle my nose, he loathes the lilac. He wrote the following poem, which I would like to share. For confidentiality, I will only use his initials. I am afraid that if I were to use his full name, PETaL (People for the Ethical Treatment of Lilacs) would come after him.

Confessions of a Lilac Hater

By PDT

How do I loathe thee?

Let me count the ways:

Could it be the flowers that bloom for just one week,

on plants that offer nothing else the other fifty-one?

Could it be the summer foliage,

encased in powdery mildew?

Could it be the curly leaves,

contorted by leaf-roll necrosis?

Could it be the muted blacks and browns

that pass for autumn color?

Could it be the graceless form,

topped by persistent fruits that always need removing?

Could it be the flowers that fill the air with fragrance,

so fleeting, yet so famous?

No, it's definitely not the flowers.

'Mt. Airy' witchalder

I just snapped this photo of Fothergilla gardenii 'Mt. Airy' the other afternoon. The flower clusters look to me like fat, squat pipecleaners, the kind that I use to wash out glasswear in the lab. Well, that is on the rare occasion that I wash my glassware!

Witchalder is a great shrub, and this particular cultivar has blue green leaves that become brilliantly colored in the autumn, with fiery hues of orange and yellow and red. But, you will have to wait until September for me to post those photos!

Early May is the time for dogwoods and redbuds...

The past few days have been great for a couple of the Northeast's native understory trees, many of which are planted around the Cornell campus. Cornus florida, the flowering dogwood, is one of the boldest to flower, even though its flowers, technically, are hardly robust. What stops the show are actually four modified, alabaster leaves, called bracts, that lie below the nondescript blooms.

Another species blooming right now is the redbud, Cercis canadensis. Its light and airy pink flowers are the antithesis of the dogwood, perched atop graceful wisps of branches. I think the two complement each other quite well, and go together like peas and carrots. Well, perhaps even better than peas and carrots, as those two veggies rarely taste good together.

What's in a name?

In botany, a lot. I often get chastised for my anal insistence in the use of proper plant nomenclature. By this, I don't mean the use of proper common names, but the correct scientific names, in Latin, spelled correctly, and in italic font. I'll let the Roman font slide if it is in an e-mail, but now that Eudora allows things to be written at a slant, I think I'll be more rigorous in following the rules in correspondence.

There are many good reasons to use the Latin name, one of them being that some species have more than one common name, and some species share common names. The first time this hit home to me was when I went off to Purdue University and had several other students 'correct' me when I referred to this particular small tree with gorgeous, smooth and fluted bark as musclewood. "No" one of them said matter-of-factly, "that is an ironwood." I was insistent, "That can't be, ironwood has bark that is flaky." Just like your personality, I thought to myself. We argued back and forth, eventually calling a truce, and parting ways for the afternoon. I stopped in at the life sciences library in Lilly Hall (no, that is not a joke) and looked it up. I was RIGHT! But, as I read further, so were they. The species we were looking at (Carpinus caroliniana) goes by several common names, including musclewood, ironwood, blue beech, American hornbeam and a few others. [The species I (correctly) learned as ironwood (Ostrya virginiana) also goes by American hop-hornbeam.] I recalled this little lesson the other day when I encountered some nice musclewood (Carpinus caroliniana) growing in the woods (above). I love how the sinewy bark is accentuated by light and shadow. It is an appropriate common name, far better than ironwood.

Another benefit of using Latin is that those names are universally accepted -- in any language and culture. It is easy to rave about this to people, but few are ever going to put this to the test. In my travels abroad, however, I have found the system to work nearly 100% of the time. While the spellings of the Latin binomials may be the same, the pronunciations can be a bit different. When I speak of maples (Acer), I use a soft 'c', however some in central Europe may use a 'k' sound, which can make things a bit difficult at first. The pines can also cause a bit of confusion, if not a few giggles. See, the genus for pine is Pinus, pronounced in the US and most European countries with a long 'i'. But in other parts of the globe, the 'i' is pronounced with a long 'e'. (Try discussing Pinus rigida with a straight face!) Most of the time, however, the uncertainty is momentary and all can get back to botanizing. However...

A few years ago in South Korea, while feasting on mugwort dumplings and mushroom soup with my advisor and some colleagues from the Korean National Arboretum, we got to talking about plants. As we were conversing, one of our hosts asked us if we wanted to go see a nearby "Pinus plantation." At least, that is what we had thought. Sure, they let the word slip off their tongue as easily as you or I would talk about male anatomy, but we were adults and with straight faces, we stated that yes, that would be a great field trip. We recalled that we were in a foreign place and after several weeks of seeing Pinus koreiensis and Pinis thunbergii in the landscape, we were used to the alternative pronunciation. We continued to talk about conifers, asking more about what the trees were used for, how long the place had been in operation, etc... But they responded with puzzled looks and then hand gestures. Eventually, one of them proceeded to lean back and point to his groin area and shout out "pee-nis, pee-nis, pee-nis!" Thank God he didn't unzip. We laughed a bit and then stopped to think just what the heck did they mean by a "penis plantation", particularly out here in the countryside just south of the DMZ? Our curiosity was quickly satisfied, for after a short drive we found ourselves at an establishment whose entire theme was the male sex organ. They were everywhere. Lightposts, bollards, coathooks, statues, even the chimney to the kiln (see photo below... the big one).

Phalicism is big (pun not intended) in Korea and this place was a juicebar, dedicated to fertility. We were the only men there; the rest of the customers were young women in the midst of pregnancy and their accompanying entourages.

So, back to the question I led with: What is in a name? A lot. Latin names are great in breaking down language barriers and for the most part, the system works. But there are some times when Latin and English words are just too similar!

Wall O' Moss...



In a recent seminar I attended, the speaker, an environmental artist and landscape designer, showed a series of works that merged art and plant material to create living sculpture. Included was a building covered in sod, with walls of emerald green. So, imagine my surprise when I happened upon this natural wall of moss while I was out botanizing in 6 Mile Creek yesterday. It was dripping in wet green, spongy and cool to the touch. Cool stuff, nature's wonders.