My white pine is well over 100 years old. It is not until white pine reach that age that the bark takes on this craggy appearance. There is so much more character there than the skin, you can hardly call it bark, on the younger pines. I often think of the person who may have planted this tree. Did they envision it as this dominant player in my small yard's landscape, dwarfing the house they planted it near? My house is a pink fairy cottage in its shadow.
|I am waiting for a fierce wind to make it rain pine cones!|
|This little clump of crocuses are darling.|
|The emerging foliage of Virginia bluebells is like no other spring ephemeral. |
It seems to be an almost dusky purple.
|Hepatica, transplanted by ants.|
|The ants are always busy. I am never quite sure where I will find bloodroot next.|
I am not privy to the gardening ants' garden plans.