I don't remember where I first saw a spiderwort and someone said “That’s a spiderwort,” but I know about when.
I worked at the Capitol and I lived on Franklin Boulevard; very convenient: a short, albeit all uphill, walk along Park Avenue to Adams and then left. It was 1979. A co-worker had a friend who worked for the Department of Natural Resources. Not sure what he did but it was all outdoors, usually alone with a map and a compass, and involved locating high water marks, so he trudged along a lot of river edges and through swamps.
This know-no-fear water’s edge hiker was a great guide; his rule was keep up or get left. He walked through the forest and prairies alike, steady pace, confident stride, and able to halt suddenly when struck by a bit of the wild world: a flower, a fern, sometimes a track. My guess is that it is he who first said “Oh, look at these spiderworts,” but I am certain that at my first sighting I made it my flower.
Perhaps it is the time of year, when winter is slipping away fast and the sun is warm and green is starting to show all over. Perhaps it’s the color, so deep a Prussian blue with just a hint of lavender that pushes it just a nudge toward the violet. Outstretched tentacle leaves and stem swollen with aloe-like sap, the whole plant is teasingly rich. Its yellow tipped pistil reaching out high above the laid back heart shaped pedals, it will be a full flower for just one day.
Growing in clusters, returning year after year, they fill the roadsides and vacant lots with deep rich blue and bright green announcing the soon to come full arrival of spring. Were Wordsworth here, he’d write:
When all at once I saw a sort / A host of dancing Spiderworts.
(...please forgive me WW...)
Whatever the reason is, it is my flower.
Last year I relocated bunches of spiderworts from around the yard and placed them near each other in even greater cluster in a sunny spot, west side of the house, against a brick wall. I photographed the first one of the year when I saw it there today.
