What a pallet upon which to place tiny treasures.

 

The bursting of spring across the landscape is a painterly expression attributed to one artist.

 

The view changes at each moment in millions of moves —

 

the budding leaves and flowers,

 

the emerging colors,

 

and the sprouting blades and stems

 

— all part of a shoot system that receives the gift of light to grow.

 

Spring is like that, life advancing forward not stopping to wait.

Well, then again, among my discoveries were a few trees hit with a halt.

One is a favorite, a Lacey Oak, growing just off the front porch in front of our kitchen window. I am puzzled by how it stays standing. Its trunk is hollow at its base and then leans horizontal toward the driveway before reaching for the sky supporting a mature canopy. The “greeting tree” stretches to meet all who visit our home, like a welcome with open arms, discriminating against none.

This tree was among the earliest to start the spring march.

 

The buds fascinated me in contrast to the heavy lichen layered on the branches.

 

 

Then, a late freeze hit Comfort.

A week later, the greeting tree looked dead.

 

I have mentally prepared for the day the tree is no longer the comfort from my kitchen window view, but that mental picture is of a finally fallen tree, not a frozen to death tree.

 

It reminds me of when I imagine the way a life event will go only for a different path to unveil.

I hoped it was just a detour.

The brown was ominous, and yet it was strangely lovely.

 

 

The contrast of milk chocolate against the lime green cedar elm called up an image of the fern gorge in spring.

 

I knew where my walk for the day would begin, at the “Land of the Ferns.”

I’ll never forget the day Jimmy and Jack found the “Land of the Ferns.” It was the early years of owning the ranch when the Greenwood and Fisher kids would play all day and how dirty they were at the end of it measured the fun.

We let them explore on their own, but they had to stay within walkie talkie distance — a safety measure I thought worked well until a recent reunion had them laughing and confessing “those things never worked!”

Jimmy and Jack were probably eight and seven when they charged into the house screaming they had discovered a “Land of the Ferns.”

I was skeptical.

At that time, I had not ventured far off the hardened caliche roads and knew little about Texas plants beyond cedar, cactus and sotols, so I doubted any plant grew on the property as delicate as a fern, let alone a land of them.

But they persuaded me to follow them to their magical discovery, at risk of knowing it was way past walkie talkie range.

I will always remember… the gorge steepened and the cliff walls closed in, the shade deepened and the air cooled, the smell of decomposing leaf litter covered the earth, green ferns hung like layers of ruffled drapery, and two proud little boys wore wonder on their faces.

I see those faces every time I go to the fern gorge… I mean, The Land of the Ferns.

As I suspected, the chocolate and lime of fronds breaking through the dried ferns from the year before mimicked the maybe-dead greeting tree against the bursting-with-life cedar elm.

Each fern wakes up in their own style.

And I laugh standing among them thinking of the personalities they evoke.

 

I sense life unfurling all around me,

awakenings I cannot see move yet feel,

and in knowing the resurrection, I accept the gift.

 

The death is a sight too.

Have you ever looked close at ferns after a freeze?

They are art to celebrate.

I marvel at the power from their study, yet a focus on new life guides my way.

Among the ferns were other movements, the scurrying of spiders.

Spiders lurking in leaf litter is no surprise, but turning up 10 or more with every step is a clutter I had never witnessed. Once I got over the initial jump — theirs and mine — watching them scatter was captivating.

How did this spider go from a full sprint to a perfect stop, aligning his stripe to camouflage against the leaf?

Then, I happened upon a funnel web.

Often when I spy a funnel web, I glimpse movement, but I never wait long enough for the homeowner to return to the front door.

I decided to sit and wait.

After a minute or two, look who appeared.

I sat still.

Over and over the spider rushed out and then retreated as if spring loaded from the back of the web, teasing me to come knock.

A closer look revealed diamonds decorating the entrance, like a glittery shrine enticing unsuspecting visitors. I wonder how many guests drop by in a day, falling into the trap?

I drew my attention next door to a delicate vine, pushing like fern fronds through the leaf litter and similarly unfurling. Like wings, the leaves spread with optimism, encouraging the outstretched tendrils to take hold and secure the vine’s place in the gorge.

This dainty plant is a Slender-Lobe Passionflower, Passiflora tenuiloba, and the sight of it brings a never failing smile. Also called Bird Wing Passionflower, it has an intricate bloom — not showy but a light, tender green — and a silvery streak through the odd shaped leaf that gives the impression of flying. I will search for the graceful flower later in the season to snap a picture and share the enchanting sight.

For this season, there are plenty of lovely blooms to find.

Along the slope next to the ferns grew a Mexican Buckeye I never noticed before. Spring is the time to identify trees by how they come into the season, and there is no way to not notice a Mexican Buckeye in bloom. The pink flowers are inviting, and I climbed closer, laughing that I was like the spider meal moving toward the shiny object.

I stepped along the steep slope, sliding on the leaves, trying to stand steady in a spot close to the canopy where the flowers were swaying in a slight breeze, spilling their fragrance into the gorge as a gift.

From afar, the flower of a Mexican Buckeye resembles the flower of a Redbud, but a nearer inspection reveals a showier bloom by comparison — deeper pink, larger clusters, and long, slender stamens that droop down and flip up at the ends, lending a frilly flair.

I was not the only one seduced as bees covered each cluster.

At my feet were tufts of a plant I did not know

One plant grew taller than the others, revealing its final form,

and sheltered in the top leaf were the buds of the flower to come.

Even with these clues, the plant was unfamiliar.

I was excited to find something new and studied the detail so I could search for it in my reference books back at the ranch house.

This single enthusiastic plant recalled a sight from earlier on my walk.

In spring it is common for new shoots to sprout at the base of trees.

But the base of this tree caught my eye because laying on the ground next to a typical shoot was a newly sprouted, full-sized leaf.

It was so odd to see a leaf that did not wait for the shoot to grow taller before it matured. It made me consider the rhythm to spring, and life — that there are those with such enthusiasm to jump ahead while others sit in a careful wait.

If only the greeting tree had been more patient.

Look closer.

Did you find the eager bloomer?

I was not ready to leave the cover of the trees, so I climbed over the slope to the adjacent draw.  At the steepest part of the slope I found a fantastic decaying tree adorned with moss and fungi.

The hard, cinnamon-brown semi-circles lined the fallen trunk like wavy shelves — their job not to hold up but to break down.

Speaking of rhythm.

It was a dance of both life and death.

And hidden in a hole at the top of the base… the perfect symbolism.

As I climbed to the end of the draw, there was another cliff wall to explore, and like the others on the property it is a history book of the land.

Similar to the fossilized oyster bed walls, it encrusted the living past and held it on display, although the shapes in this wall were different from oysters.

I pulled at a few protruding fossils until one came loose.

What a fun surprise when I flipped it over.

Oh, the wordless wonder that speaks from ages ago.

Again, a faint, sweet fragrance was falling, and I turned around to discover the white, flattened, flower clusters of a Rusty Blackhaw Viburnum, Viburnum, rifidulum.

Rusty Blackhaw is an understory tree with bumpy bark and glossy leaves and teeny white flowers that look like candy bundled together in bouquets.

It stood at the tip of the draw, surrounded by larger oaks, and graced the space like a loved child.

It was time to move along, the resilience of nature encouraging my every step.

Once on the hilltop, my eye wanted to gaze west and rest on the changing colors, but I trained it to focus down to find the tiny treasures for my plant inventory of The Lost Madrone Ranch.

In February, when I posted the story, Shake in the Sun… With Exhilaration, the only white flowers blooming were the Anemones, also called wind flowers. As May begins, I must look closer to identify the smatterings of white flowers.

Sometimes, I am fooled by the pops of white lichen covering the limestone outcroppings.

Maybe white lichen from afar?

But up close, Prairie Fleabane, Erigeron modestus.

Fleabane grows in the grass on hilltops in the same way as wind flowers.

Prairie Fleabane?

No, up close, White Rock Lettuce, also called White Dandelion, Pinaropappus roseus,

and an exquisite flower when you zoom in on the detail.

On this hilltop, the large pops of white are Rain Lillies.

Cooperia drummondii

Across the road, two kinds of Blackfoot Daisy bloom.

Blackfoot daisy, Melampodium, leucanthum (on the right in the picture) and Hoary blackfoot daisy, Melampodium, cinereum (close up on the left).

Along the ridge in the picture below, the white flowers that appear as small speckles are called Corn Salad, Valerianella amarella. Corn Salad… don’t you love the common names of wildflowers?

Only four or so inches off the ground, the individual flowers of Corn Salad are like little fan blades, clustered in bouquets like the flowers of the Rusty Blackhaw Viburnum found in the gorge.

Taller to about a foot or more and growing along dry caliche roads are groups of White Milkwort, Polygala alba, with bare, slender stems and spikes of bright white flowers that climb to a point, either straight up or curved.  When they sway in the wind I smile, like catching a glance from a friend.

Sometimes I cast my eye across the landscape and it takes a friend to point out the flowers.

Did you notice the Crow Poison, also called False Garlic, Nothoscordum bivalve, growing in the foreground of the previous picture?

I didn’t see it until the motion from the landing gave away its location.

Look closer at the strip of white fringe at the hem of the wings, aligned on the white flower like the spider on the leaf.

Fascinating.

Many of the tiny flowers that bloom in early spring tuck among the grasses.

Look closer.

Did you see this sweet little pink flower? Some type of vetch?

Yes, tiny treasures of the artist.

This photo of a Dutchman’s Breeches, Thamnosma Texana, needs my finger for scale to show how small it is.

The common name comes from the fruit pods that resemble pantaloons.

On the entire property I have found just two spots where this plant grows. This red and yellow variety grows along a road close to the front gate, and a single plant of an all yellow variety grows half a mile away near the house.

Maybe they are so tiny I just haven’t found the others?

My favorite spring bloomers are the purple flowers.

The common purple Prairie Verbena, Verbena bipinnatifida, is everywhere in large swaths and small clumps. They are easy to identify, and like other flowers, they are most appreciated up close.

Did you see the ant? Zoom in.

Also found everywhere but more subtle on the landscape is the Blue-eyed Grass, Sisyrinchium ensigerum. I not only love how the little flower looks, I love its name. It reminds me of my mom and one of her caregivers who when needing to calm and redirect my mom, Irene always says, “I love your pretty blue eyes.”

Blue Gilia, Gilia rigidula, grows in the dry, hard caliche, and it’s hard not to be impressed by the deep blue and exquisite design of the delicate flower lifting from such harsh conditions.

Others in the pink/purple family include:

Cranesbill, Erodium cicutarium

Drummond’s Skullcap, Scutellaria drummondii

I found this Skullcap when looking at the pile of porcupine quills!

Wild Garlic, Allium Drummondii

Texas Storksbill, Erodium texanum (Can you find the seed pod that looks like a stork’s bill?)

Golden Eye Phlox, Phlox Romeriana

Gray Vervain, Verbena canescens

Annual Pennyroyal, Hedeoma acinoides

Pennyroyal is a common companion on my walks, growing through limestone on the sunny hilltops and along ridges in the shady gorges.

I have seen several shades of pink pennyroyal, but I had never seen a pure white one until I found this one. I cannot find a white variety in my reference books, so I’m checking with my expert friends to figure out what I found — an incorrect id, a plant faded with age, a variant of some sort?

Yellow flowers are the most common ones found and the hardest for me to identify because so many look alike.

Early one day I took a picture of this field, knowing in a few weeks it would fill with yellow flowers. I laughed about how much fertilizer was available to help it along.

That evening I was taking pictures of the setting sun to the west

when I glanced back toward the south to the same field.

Evening Primrose, Oenothera triloba, made its evening appearance, dotting the entire landscape.

And yes, a few weeks later, Slender-Leaf Hymenoxys, Hymenoxys linearifolia, covers the field.

Elegant in form, Yellow Wood Sorrel, Oxalis Dillenii, appears like grace — marvelous, infinite, matchless, and freely bestowed.

Back in the tiny category, I did not get a great detail shot of this mystery clover-like patch of yellow flowers with weird little pods, but zoom in and look at them and someone help me identify the plant.

Texas Dandelion, Pyrrhopappus multicaulis, is blooming.

And, so is Slender-Stem Bitterweed, Hymenoxys scaposa.

Many yellow flowers that bloom through the summer are similar to Slender-Stem Bitterweed, and this summer I plan to learn the difference between them.

As with all endeavors worth taking, commitment underlies the journey.

For three weekends after finding the unknown plant growing under the Mexican Buckeye in the Land of the Ferns, I returned to the gorge to find the plant in bloom.

Without the flower, neither my mental picture nor photographs matched up to any picture in my reference books. It remained unknown.

But on that third weekend, the flower stood staring right at me, as if an old familiar friend… or a mom wanting to remember.

Like the Slender-lobed Passionflower, the sepals spread like bird wings.

Like the Blue-eyed Grass, the upper two petals were soft purple-blue.

Like the Mexican Buckeye, three of its six stamens flipped up at the ends.

Like the Blue Gilia, one of the three stamens sported the color combination of rich purple, yellow, and white.

And, as if wanting to know me as much as I wanted her to know me, like eyes, two of the stamens stared.

A False Dayflower, Tinantia anomala, opens its flower in the morning and closes by noon — for me, cutting short the beauty far too soon.

Along with Jim, Alexandra, and Jimmy, I spent Easter weekend with my siblings and their families in Washington, D.C., loving the time together. On the plane ride home I re-read, The Little Prince, written by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, published in 1943, and one of the most translated books ever.

I recommend the short read.

My favorite chapters are twenty one and twenty two, where the little prince weeps, learning that his one flower, who he loved and cared for and thought was the only one of its kind in the whole world, was just an ordinary rose. But then he meets a fox who teaches him the lesson that when you tame something you create a tie and the thing is no longer like a hundred thousand others because you now need each other and you are responsible for it, and it becomes the only thing in the world for you. The fox tells the little prince a secret truth, “One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”

I see a million flowers across the ranch but what I think and feel when I spend time looking is what is important.

Time spent in the relationship, the bond from caring and loving, the responsibility of the connection — to the land, my husband, my kids, my family, my faith — is what I see, is where I find meaning, is what is in my heart.

Look at the world with your heart and the tiny white dots will never look the same.

P.S.

At the time of this posting, the spring colors have moved toward the even greens of early summer.

And the greeting tree is full and welcoming all who visit The Lost Madrone Ranch.

Thank YOU for following Take Comfort.