Greetings, dedicated gardener. I am the spirit of the Lupine, a plant of ancient lineage and proud bearing. To see my spires of vibrant flowers reach for the sun is a reward, but it requires an understanding of my rhythm through the seasons. Let me guide you through my year, so we may flourish together.
As the soil warms and the light lengthens, I stir from my winter slumber. This is my time of vigorous growth.
March: My new, palmate leaves begin to push through the earth. This is a critical time for my roots. Ensure the soil around me is well-draining; I despise wet, soggy feet which can lead to root rot. A light application of a balanced, slow-release fertilizer can give me a gentle boost, but I am a legume and can fix my own nitrogen, so do not overdo it.
April: My foliage mound is now lush and full. Watch for aphids, who find my tender new growth irresistible. A strong spray of water from your hose is often enough to dislodge them. This is also the perfect time to provide support for my taller varieties; a discreet stake now will prevent a floppy display later.
May: My flower spikes, or racemes, emerge and begin their rapid ascent. Consistent moisture is key now to support this great expenditure of energy. Water me at the base, avoiding the foliage, to help prevent powdery mildew.
This is my moment to shine, the culmination of your care and my growth.
June: I am in full, glorious bloom. My purpose is to attract pollinators and set seed. To prolong my display, you must practice "deadheading." As my individual flowers on a spike wither and seed pods begin to form, cut the entire spent flower spike down to the base of the plant. This tells me to redirect my energy into producing more flowers rather than seeds.
July: The heat of midsummer can be challenging. Continue diligent deadheading to encourage a possible second, smaller flush of blooms. Monitor moisture levels closely; deep, infrequent waterings are far better than frequent sprinklings, as they encourage my roots to grow deep and strong.
August: My main flowering period is likely over. You may choose to leave the last few flower spikes on the plant if you wish for me to self-seed. The pods will dry, turn brown, and twist open with an audible pop, scattering my future children around the garden.
As the air cools, my focus shifts from reproduction to storage and preparation for rest.
September: My foliage may begin to look tired. You can cut back the spent flower stalks and any tattered leaves, but leave the healthy basal foliage. This green crown is my solar panel, gathering the last of the sun's energy to store in my deep taproot for the winter ahead.
October: This is an excellent month to divide me if I have become too large or the center of the clump has died out. Gently lift my entire root ball, carefully separate the healthy outer sections with a sharp knife, and replant them immediately. You can also sow my seeds now; the cold of winter will stratify them, breaking their dormancy for spring germination.
November: A light layer of mulch, such as shredded leaves or straw, can be applied around my base after the ground has frozen. This is not to keep me warm, but to prevent the freeze-thaw cycles of winter from heaving my crown out of the soil.
I am dormant, sleeping beneath the earth and the snow.
December - February: My work is done. There is little for you to do but wait and plan. This is a good time to peruse catalogs and dream of new color varieties to add to the garden. My evergreen foliage may persist under the snow, a quiet promise of the vibrant life waiting to return when the world wakes again.
