Columbine

Delicate gown-shaped blooms hover above a cloud of silver-green leaves; we planted the first seeds years ago, light pink and deep fuschia and royal purple and fairytale blue. I didn’t expect them to last - the plants look insubstantial, and our frosts strike mercilessly. Yet somehow they thrived, the new leaves sprouting in silver haze every spring. Something went wrong, some cross-pollination or fluke mutation, which turned the clean flare at the bell of the petals to ruffles. The princess-gown silhouettes now flounce multilayered petticoats in pale purple-blue. Nearby the plant with pink flowers nods prettily in the breeze, fuschia shoulders giving way to crisp cream skirts. Most of the current generation is in shades of purple, and I can’t help thinking of Mendel and his pea flowers. The flowers fade into coronet seedheads who wave and rattle and tip their lustrous black beads to the soil, sowing next summer’s beauty. A hummingbird darts by, startled by my presence into an emerald blur. When I leave she will feed, maneuvering easily as though buoyed up by some unseen force as her slender beak dips to drink from the nectar. For now, though, the gowned ladies dance to the rattling of the seeds.