In June the blooms come soon #phenology

The roadside South of the house is about to burst into bloom after bloom of bird's-foot trefoil. There are a few spiderwort plants in bloom behind the house. I managed to avoid mowing them down the other day. Some sort of vetch is starting to develop flowers. A few red clover plants are now in bloom. I'm sort of pleased with how many local plants I've learned to identify. But...

bird's-foot trefoil in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Other than knowing what a plant looks like, and its name, and, maybe, if it's considered invasive or noxious, or both, I know little about the roles our local wild plants may play. As an additional source of irritation, I can't decide if that's a noteworthy deficiency on my part, or not. Most of the little foraging I do requires me to identify fruits, not flowers, although I have noticed a number of "blackberry" bushes that have come into flower recently.

red clover blossoms

Photo by J. Harrington

I've also started to wonder how our ancestors learned about the different uses of plants; what's good to eat; what to avoid; how to treat a toothache or stomachache; what makes a good dye and similar matters. Gary Nabhan has written about the loss of such functional botanical information by a number of indigenous cultures, maybe one of his books will do more to provide insights on where the knowledge originated. I've not yet found a reasonably full description of how such knowledge was first acquired. Braiding Sweetgrass, which I've read several times, doesn't deal with the initial acquisition of such knowledge.

Innocence

By Linda Hogan

There is nothing more innocent

than the still-unformed creature I find beneath soil,

neither of us knowing what it will become

in the abundance of the planet.

It makes a living only by remaining still

in its niche.

One day it may struggle out of its tender

pearl of blind skin

with a wing or with vision

leaving behind the transparent.

I cover it again, keep laboring,

hands in earth, myself a singular body.

Watching things grow,

wondering how

a cut blade of grass knows

how to turn sharp again at the end.

This same growing must be myself,

not aware yet of what I will become

in my own fullness

inside this simple flesh.

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