First buds emerging

 Can you make out the three buds in this photograph?   They certainly weren't in evidence this morning when I brushed leaf debris from the Liverlilies (Hepatica nobilis).  But by mid-afternoon, with warmer temperatures and much sunshine, they made their appearance. I was excited, to put it mildly. This was an entirely unexpected treat.

For those who read my blog last spring, you might be thinking - oh no, not the Liverlilies again. I am falling even more in love them because they seem to do so well here.  Their foliage also looks great throughout the summer. Their beautiful sky-blue flowers are simple, but elegant. Two neighbouring Liverlily plants will soon be in bud, while two others are still under snow on the shadier and cooler side of the garden.

 

This past winter, I entertained myself by imagining my plants with their own personalities and inhabiting a world constructed entirely in my mind. In this world, plants slowly wake in the spring and carefully fold their leaves to sleep in autumn.  During their waking hours, the world is brimming with activity - there's drama, comedy, music, mystery, the odd chase scene and so much more.

 

Here is a short tale of the first day of the three liverlily blooms:

"What is that rustling noise I hear overhead?," I murmured. Ah finally ... some light and warmth on my back. Maybe if I poke my head up, I'll know if it's time to emerge from my cosy world. One tiny push and here I am, braving the world for the first time.

"Come on, hurry, it's warm up here," I whisper to my friends as I nudge them awake. "Wake up, wake up. We've slept long enough and there's nothing quite like the feeling of warm sunshine."

 

"Not so quickly," cautioned the tattered, elderly brown-leaf  high above us. "Take your time - there's no rush. The sun isn't going anywhere, at least not for a few hours."

 

"I hope that big brown dog won't step on us like he did last year," grumbled a neighbouring bud, slowly stretching and yawning.

 

"It wasn't his fault," said another elderly brown leaf. "Don't you remember that bothersome squirrel? I don't mean the nice one he liked, but the other one - the one with the fluffy tail?"

 

This brought talk of our memories of last summer when we were still under the earth, but listening to the world above. "That's the squirrel who ate our tulip neighbours just before we went on our long sleep,"  said our brown-leaved friend as she prodded another bud above earth.
 

Now that we buds were happily sunning ourselves, the brown leaves swayed gently above us and talked among themselves of their happiness in seeing the blue sky. We listened intently and looked everywhere, thankful that our world was bright with light again.