Patience, gardener! From my perspective, I am simply not ready. If you started me from seed this season, my entire biological focus is on establishing a strong, deep root system and a healthy set of basal leaves. Flowering is an incredibly energy-intensive process. I must first ensure my own survival and strength before I can dedicate my resources to reproduction. Many lupines are biennials or short-lived perennials, meaning it is perfectly normal for me to spend my first full growing season just growing vegetatively. I will reward your patience with a spectacular floral display next year, once I am mature and secure.
Where you have planted me is crucial to my ability to flower. I crave sunlight. If taller plants or structures are casting shade over me for most of the day, I simply cannot photosynthesize enough energy. I need a full six to eight hours of direct sun to produce the sugars required to form my tall, magnificent flower spikes. Conversely, if I am baking in intense, all-day heat without any respite, I may become stressed and conserve my energy instead of spending it on blooms. Well-draining soil is also non-negotiable; my deep taproot will rot in soggy, waterlogged conditions, severely weakening me and preventing flowering.
Your well-intentioned fertilizing might be the very thing hindering my blooms. I am a legume, which means I have a unique symbiotic relationship with nitrogen-fixing bacteria in my root nodules. I am remarkably efficient at gathering my own nitrogen. If you feed me a fertilizer high in nitrogen, you are encouraging me to put all my energy into producing lush, green leaves at the expense of flowers. To initiate and support flowering, I need a boost of phosphorus – the nutrient most associated with bloom production. A fertilizer with a higher middle number (e.g., 5-10-5) applied in early spring is much more helpful to me than a general-purpose plant food.
If I have successfully flowered before but now refuse, it is likely an energy issue. If you allow my old flower spikes to wither and form seed pods, I will divert all my energy into seed production. This is my primary purpose from a evolutionary standpoint: to reproduce. However, this exhaustive process can leave me weakened and unlikely to flower again, or I may even perish afterward, behaving like a biennial. By deadheading – cutting down the spent flower spike before seeds develop – you signal to me that my attempt at reproduction failed. I will often respond by trying again, potentially sending up a second, smaller flush of blooms later in the season, or I will channel that saved energy into strengthening myself for a fantastic display the following year.
Various environmental stresses can cause me to abort my flowering plans. A late spring frost can easily damage my tender flower buds as they are forming, causing them to blacken and fail. Exceptionally hot and dry weather, especially if I am not receiving deep, consistent watering, will cause me to go dormant early to survive, sacrificing flowers. Furthermore, if my roots are disturbed or damaged by eager gardeners digging around me, I will retreat and focus on root repair instead of blooming. I prefer to be left undisturbed once established.
