Crocuses

Compared to prairie crocuses, which show up in small precious groups in hidden places, the ones we grow from bulbs on the West Coast are right out there and  proliferate like mad. They've been given free rein on this lawn; from a distance, it looks like it's been sprinkled with purple confetti. 

A closer look at the crocus lawn just a couple of blocks from my place. The blooms are still going strong after several weeks. What a beautiful treat for the neighbourhood!

Striped crocuses, which are just starting to proliferate in my own garden.

Where I grew up, crocuses were shy, retiring things, glimpses of mauve in fuzzy grey coats. They hid in winter-dried grass on the sunny side of a hill, at the base of a tree or fencepost, magically appearing when the snows finally retreated. If you lived on the prairies, you knew their secret places, and seeking them out was a solemn ritual of spring.

In Vancouver, there is nothing secret or subtle about crocuses. A different creature completely from the drought- and snow-hardy prairie crocus (actually anemone patens), West Coast crocuses  proliferate madly. After poking up in January or February, they provide a long showing of yellow, purple, white and purple-striped blooms.

For some reason, I held off planting crocus bulbs in my Dunbar garden until a few years ago, but this spring, they’ve taken hold and are showing up in all kinds of unexpected spots.  I’m loving their bright clean colours against the winter beds, but they’ve made me remember the subtler pleasures of the crocuses I used to know. A carnival compared to a pilgrimage; a visual blast compared to a quiet, joyous reminder of summer yet to come.

Where did the yellow crocus come from? Did I plant that? One of the pleasures of spring is unexpected discoveries.

A brave little troop of crocuses out to conquer the garden bed.

By the front walk, they're already well established.