Rage! Rage! Against the dying of the light! Celebrating endless autumn....

Fireworks goldenrod in the O'Fallon Perennial border a few weeks ago: what a great plant! And what an amazing autumn: on and on and on it goes...ordinarily we would have had at least one, maybe two dustings of snow by now and hoar frost at least. They predicted hard frost tonight and tomorrow night, and now maybe not. Gotta love Colorado! You NEVER know what to expect!

Found this self sown sporeling of Pellaea atropurpurea growing on solid Limestone in the Rock Alpine Garden a few days ago. I wonder if one out of 100 visitors notices (despite the fact it is at eye level)....maybe one out of 1000? Would you?

Many is the year this Hosta tardiflora would have been fried by now. Come to think of it, Bergenia ciliata right next to it shows a bit of damage, so the Rock Alpine Garden (which is a frost pocket and gets the first frost anywhere in Denver) has been kissed by the Frost goddess...but not enough to fry this yet.

I blogged about this elsewhere, but can't resist yet another shot of this stunning grass introduced by Scott and Lauren Ogden from central Texas: it is obviously a huge winner: Muhlenbergia reverchonii. I regret to say it is not a plant for dry gardens (it grows in my unwatered border but will not bloom much): not that this matters much. 99.9% of Colorado gardens are horribly overwatered...Sheesh! What will it take to wake people up?

I end with a closeup of Aconitum carmichaelii...or is it A. henryi? Or A. cammarum? I have seen a dozen names attached to this giant, late autumn blooming gem from East Asia. Whatever the name, few plants are more majestic or gratifying in the dying ember of the growing season...

I, for one, rejoice in this sempiternal fall. I feel about winter as Dylan Thomas does about "that Good night" in one of the greatest poems of the English Language:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTOTHAT GOOD NIGHT

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Nature's last green is gold

Of course, Robert Frost is right about the first green: but green turns gold again in the fall, and this autumn is shaping up pretty nicely right now. Green ash and even some cottonwoods are bright yellow around town, and the first Autumn blaze maples and Autumn purple ash are bright red and purple in the distance from my front room window. The Ohio buckeyes, which often turn orange and scarlet in September, are only now doing their thing...what a gratifying, late autumn. But the apple of my eye right now (so to speak: sounds better than saying birch of my eye) is the ten year old Himalayan birch that crowns the waterfall in the rock garden at home. It is a neutral green much of the year, but for a week in the fall it glows gold and justifies its pride of place. It's getting a tad tall, and I keep thinking I ought to take it out (its roots are probably wreaking havoc with the waterfall) but now the trunk is getting gnarly and white barked [see below], and it's forming a graceful shape that with a little shaping could be enhanced even further...maybe I need to invite Harold Sasaki or Jerry Morris over for lunch some day soon....


This year, for the first time, it has set a lot of seed. I collected an envelope full, and more is ripening: I wonder if it will be viable? There are no other birches that I know of in the neighborhood so theoretically it could be true (assuming the seed is viable of course)...if you look carefully at the picture above you can see the interesting dark seedpods, as well as next spring's flower buds in waiting. What a cool little plant...


I've had the thing so long...I grew it from seed from either Josef Jurasek or Mojmir Pavelka, collected in western China. I shall have to dig back through my records and see if I can get any more info: I don't believe they had a species name on it. It looks like a tiny microform of Betula utilis, although in size and habit it is much more like our native B. glandulosa--although much more delicate. Betula glandulosa in our mountains can often be a fiery orange or even scarlet: it would be fun to hybridize them, wouldn't it? I've not had much luck with miniature birches, so having this one is compensation. If you'd like a pinch of seed, just email your address to me at panayoti.kelaidis@gmail.com and I'll post you some.

The BEST Zauschneria

I am not always a diehard, sticking to my guns no matter what. But I still call shooting stars Dodecatheon (even though I know they are really primroses) and zauschnerias may really be fireweeds (not a bad name for them) but I figure if hummingbirds know the difference, so might we...So I persist in calling this Zauschneria septentrionale.

I am always amazed there are not more zauschnerias planted in Denver. Plant Select has championed Zauschneria garrettii, which blooms in June, July and August but is pretty tattered by now. It is undoubtedly the toughest and hardiest...and many years the later blooming californica and arizonica are often frosted...but Zauschneria septentrionale never disappoints. This terribly underappreciated plant comes from northern California, and possibly Oregon. It generally comes into bloom in August, but it is still blazing away in mid October this year (I just took this picture last Friday in the Rock Alpine Garden at Denver Botanic Gardens.) I think I got my plant from Carman's wonderful nursery in Los Gatos almost 30 years ago, and it has grown there contentedly ever since. The silvery white foliage is decorative long before the flowers open, but with its wonderful bloom (and tolerance of many garden soils and conditions) I would rate this plant very high indeed. Don't you agree?