Astilbe
Feathery pink plumes that thrive in the shady, damp corner where almost nothing else will flower. The fern-like foliage looks good long after the blooms fade.
Every growing thing in and around the house — out in the beds, on the shelves, and in the sunroom.
Feathery pink plumes that thrive in the shady, damp corner where almost nothing else will flower. The fern-like foliage looks good long after the blooms fade.
A cloud of tiny white flowers that softens every hard edge in the bed and glows when the low evening light passes through it.
My corner anchor, with mophead blooms that drift between pink and lavender depending on the year's soil. She leans toward the hives like she knows where the bees live.
Golden, dark-eyed daisies that take over the bed from midsummer into fall. Native, cheerful, and completely unbothered by heat.
The evergreen backbone of the garden — tidy green spheres that hold the structure together all winter while everything else disappears.
The quiet centerpiece of the back bed — ten years of slow branching into a burgundy canopy that turns the evening light to embers.
The hardest-working flower in the garden. From July on it’s never without a bumblebee — the bridge between my beds and my hives.
Tucked right beside the hive so its little blue flowers are the bees’ first stop. Overwinters in the garage when the Jersey cold turns serious.
Upright spikes of deep violet-blue that the bees work from morning to dusk. One of the hardest-flying favorites in the whole bed.
Dramatic arrow-shaped leaves with bright white veins — the diva of the shelf, and worth indulging.
The vine that started the whole jungle. Nearly unkillable, endlessly shareable, and happy to trail several feet down from a sunny shelf.
A waterfall of glossy heart-shaped leaves off the middle shelf — one of the easiest, most forgiving trailers there is.
The first big plant I ever bought and still the centerpiece — now throwing fenestrated leaves the size of dinner plates every spring.
Velvety, bronze-green heart leaves that catch the light like suede. The softer, moodier cousin of the heartleaf.
The collector’s prize — dark leaves splashed with bubblegum pink, no two the same. Worth every bit of the fuss.
The one I recommend to everyone who insists they kill everything. Architectural, drought-proof, quietly cleaning the air.
Delicate trailing strands of tiny silver-marbled hearts spilling off the top shelf.
A cascade of little green beads — the trickiest of my trailers, but mesmerizing when happy.
Huge paddle leaves that turn the sunroom corner into something tropical. The biggest personality in the house.
Patterned silver-and-green leaves that bring color low to the ground — tough, lush, and undemanding.
The tall standard-form tree by the sunroom windows — the plant everyone asks about, and the one that taught me patience.