Delicate origins, difficult seed
These are the flowers and early seed pods of the Florida buttonwood tree (Conocarpus erectus), a mangrove shrub native to this region. The eye-shaped leaves and alternating branches of both the traditional variety, of which this is one, and of the silver variety, which differs in tone, color, and texture, gives the overall form of the shrub a tree-like quality, tufts of growth pushing skyward. These plants are a favorite among Florida Friendly advocates, loved for their beauty and ease of care. These particular flowers and seeds will develop through the season and then some time late next fall will suddenly turn brown and begin to be eaten. We are told these seed pods will not germinate in this soil on their own. They are dependent upon an apparently co-evolved bird species through whose gut the seed must pass. Such birds are either few and far between any more or they do not pass the seeds in our vicinity, because I have almost always only seen this tree in places where people have put it already sprouted, present photo included. This does not detract from its beauty or its place, it merely explains its circumstances. Nevertheless, I plant the seeds every week or so in my restoration plot - so far, no takers. Perhaps I should experiment with the passage through my own gut?

It used to be to wail and howl at others, those unscrupulous pirates who robbed us blind almost since the 21st century began. And they have not all gone away. But they no longer have the access to national power that they had under the prior chief (I will not even name him). Now, I think, the battle is ours to lose. They don't want us to get our health care. No one wants to end the wars completely. It isn't a radical agenda in the White House. But it is the sort of inclusive centrism that inspires better days. That means that wailing and howling must now shift to us, to you and me. Not to point fingers, but to reflect. What have you done lately? What have I? Are we like the seed of the buttonwood tree, elegant and then hard. Resistant to our native soils. Dependent upon the consumption of others? These days are ours. We may wallow in our indignation or we may hasten into the change. I choose the latter, and will have the buttonwood seeds with my morning coffee.

Twisting fate
What is better might be the way that a native passion flower vine (Passiflora sumthinorutta) with juicy seeds spreads its generations so quickly. The corkscrew passion vine is what the native plant store called it. It had overtaken the rotting husk of a Brazilian Pepper bush that was zapped with herbicide. The pepper trunks lurk for years after such a treatment. Standing husks of starved fiber. This vine made its way up the long stem and then gathered at the top. It has been growing for more than a year or two, given its size, but only now, this week, I notice its presence. Nature is like that. Hiding things in plain view. Propagating prolifically, crowding the ground before you even know a seed has fallen. The offspring of this plant now pops up all around this area, under palm trees, amidst sprouting dog fennel, under towering oaks. It must be a delicious, or at least tempting, fruit. Under trees implies that birds like it. These fruit are not yet ripe, but I believe they will be before summer arrives. And more of the elegant vine will populate the Hammock.

We must always hope that politics are like that, too. Silent husks of dead or killed material covered quietly in a native vine. The opposite of problems hiding in plain site. It is nice to feel that someone is at the wheel and tellingly shameful how unwillingly the fear mongers depart. Yelling louder and louder as they become increasingly less relevant. These changes have promising futures, we look on them like the corkscrew vines, welcome members of our restoration community.