#osmunda

[jillraggett]

Plant of the Day

Monday 19 December 2022

The waterside fern Osmunda regalis (royal fern, blooming fern, buckhorn brake, ditch fern, rusty fern, water fern) thrives in damp acidic soils. This large clump forming plant has bright green bipinnate fronds in spring but these develop spectacular red-brown colours in autumn.

Jill Raggett

[deathtek]

5/24/24

[photo-biont]

[reddirttown]

Language of Flowers: Osmunda

In the language of flowers, each day of the year has its designated flower. Today, October 28, that flower is Osmunda, which signifies dreams. Image above from Wikipedia. The Osmunda sporangia (the enclosure in which spores are formed) uniformly ripen to a lovely golden color, and many folks think the fern is in bloom. It is not, but the common name “flowering fern” persists. One species,…

[geopsych]

A conversational post. Last year I had an injury and couldn’t keep up with the garden much to the delight of many species of plants, insects and birds. This year I’ve been doing some cleanup and as I cut away ferns and goldenrod and other plants that have taken advantage of neglect moths and other insects are sadly fluttering up out of their hiding places reminding me that all lawn and garden cleanup is habitat loss.

Sometimes cleanup has to be done for social reasons like neighbors (the area between my garden fence and the neighbors’ fence is full of ostrich ferns but among them are some nettles. Probably if I don’t cut them the neighbors will but if they don’t know what nettles are and grab them gloveless to cut them they’re in for a world of pain. Better I glove up and handle them myself.) My neighbors’ kids play in their lawn and sometimes balls or frisbees land between the fences so they prefer it not to be a jungle or nature preserve in there. Ticks are a real threat here and I don’t want kids to get them because of me.

I’ve also been wading through the mess/habitat eliminating vines. I’ve pulled a lot of bindweed and clematis paniculata down from the lilac. I have to do that all summer or they overwhelm it. Vines are like parasites, using other plants to give them a leg up and then shading those plants with their leaves. Virginia creeper has to be kept down to a dull roar too. Today I found that one of my most beloved native plants, the royal fern, Osmunda regalis, above, was plagued with bindweed. It has enough trouble surviving in this non-woodland environment without vines pulling its fronds down out of the sunlight. I removed each vine gently and am hoping for the best.

But every single thing like this disturbs things, robs living things of habitat, reduces the amount of food that wrens and other birds can find for their growing families, so I try to be thoughtful and try to leave some areas as undisturbed as I can without allowing plants that will do more harm than good to take over. The whole garden grows better if some of it is left wild for insects and other creatures to use.

tl;dr: All yard trimming and cleanup is habitat destruction but sometimes you have to do it. Just be thoughtful and leave room somewhere for nature to do its thing. (If calling it “leaving room for the fairies to live in” makes it more fun, do that. Because after all, who knows?)

[aisling-saoirse]

Cinnamon Ferns in the Forest - May 27th 2023

[thebotanicalarcade]

n9_w1150 by Biodiversity Heritage Library Via Flickr: Ferns: British and exotic... London,Groombridge and Sons,1856-60. biodiversitylibrary.org/page/34769742

[moochilatv]

Osmunda Music presents: Heartful of Peace

Another peaceful song from Osmunda Music to elevate yourself

"Heartful of Peace" is more than just an album; it is an educational journey designed to instill values of compassion, acceptance, and environmental stewardship.

Each track is accompanied by a vibrant animated music video, enhancing the storytelling and engaging young minds and hearts.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Osmunda Music (@osmundamusic)

This album, designed in tandem with a children's curriculum, is a mindful and visionary resource crafted for educators and caregivers of TK-2nd grade. It is also accessible to audiences of all ages.

Listen the single Heartful of Place:

Osmunda Music (Rebecca Trujillo Vest) is an American artist, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist, music producer, warrior goddess, earth mother… a force of nature. She began singing and playing guitar in Santa Fe, New Mexico in the early 1970s as a young girl. She moved to Los Angeles in the mid 90’s. Private moments shared with her guitar were a nurturing experience she describes as similar to a mother’s love.

[nemfrog]

Root of Osmunda cinnamomea. The anatomy of woody plants. 1917.

Internet Archive

[vandaliatraveler]

Despite its small size, Valley Falls State Park is a real treasure. Most people who visit the park come for the falls on the Tygart Valley River and completely ignore the beautiful trails. The Rhododendron and Glady Creek Trails wind through some lovely old cove forest anchored by impressive boulder fields smothered in moss. It has that LOTR thing going, especially along some of the more secluded sections of Glady Creek, culminating in an enchanting, multi-tiered waterfall draped in rhododendron. This time of the year, the mountain laurel (Kalmia latifolia) and ninebark (Physocarpus opulifolius) are in bloom (I can't decide which is lovelier) and the fungi and ferns dominate the forest floor, now that the canopy has closed over. The American royal fern (Osmunda spectabilis), which grows in the nooks and crannies of the giant boulders at the edge of the river, is a personal favorite of mine.

[konjaku]

薇[Zenmai] Osmunda japonica

It can grow in moist, half-shaded area, and is especially common along mountain streams. The grass is 50 centimeters to 1 meter tall and produces fertile leaves and sterile leaves from a single plant. The fertile leaf is called Otoko-zenmai and the sterile leaf is called Onna-zenmai. Otoko(男) means male, onna(女) means female.

The shoots that emerge in the spring are circinate and covered with white downy hairs. This part is eaten as a wild vegetable. However, it seems to be an unspoken rule in almost any region that only onna-zenmai should be picked, and otoko-zenmai should not be picked in order to keep the plant alive. The photo shows that otoko-zenmai is about to grow.

By the way, the kanji 薇 is the same as that in 薔薇[Bara](Rose).

[mountainman-420]

Osmunda regalis: Royal Fern

[mewling-central]

An excerpt from the Maznaǵamazmë Ohlaa or The Decree of the Coast, written in the Imperial Mewling script. Translation below

Ańos Nawḿḿaveemë tu-rin i-arun ëdu-tuńo tuyos Neezhmazzhëm Rafewjëm su-twańos neńachër, Taańaseeḿëpabraamë Mitooca Tarazhatf́aneewe Neezḿëm riḿachim shi-rin su-arun satu-tuńo sïduyos mariȷ́asë fav́ateezo, Fezmi Woleḿa Veeneezḿë po Neezzhoyv́abaḿu Arsi Aḿḿëneezḿëm shtoḿë, po Talazḿasolsazmë Aaneezḿë Osmunda Ëzzhińńachiini Mazhatḿum Zḿuzhatḿum shatḿub́anizḿë, cay ohlaa Neezḿë Ńawzmë Erfeezoma ratsï as, po aȷ́ala i usofdir ye weenifdir, po i ërïmë Nerimmazmë azamrï neńazmi ratoshtë tashnav́apdir.

...

"On the twenty-fourth day of the Bright Summer Moon in the eight-thousand eight-hundred thirty-seventh year of Thought in the sixth Great Precession, coinciding with the five-thousand six-hundredth year of the reign of Emperor Mitooca Rhodolite of House Dreamweaver, child of Former Empress Wollemia of the South and Empress Consort Neezzhoyv́abaḿu Opal, and who has begotten Osmunda Spinel, Princess Primogenita and Heir Apparent to the Verdant Throne, does this decree come into law by order of His Majesty The Emperor, and thus henceforth shall not be contested nor dismissed, and so shall be recognized throughout the whole of the entirety of the Pushmar Empire as divine law."

[kazoosandfannypacks]

summary: when a demeter camper falls for an ares camper, carnations and crocuses aren’t too far behind, whether they like it or not. word count: 4173 words a/n: hey guys! i know y'all liked my last story so much, and i had so much fun with it, that i wanted to do another one! and yeah, i've never seen anything anywhere about the power i gave the demeter kid, but it i just kinda made it up and it works well for this story. enjoy! taglist: @poptart-cat-78 @fynn-arcana @babsbabbles @laughingphoenixleader {if you’d like to be added to my halfblood 5&1 taglist/pjo taglist, let me know!}

also on ao3!

five flowers ares girls don't appreciate (and one that they really, really do)

~oliver's third summer~

 Oliver McAdam had a rare blessing from his godly parent, and it was the bane of his existence.

 For some people, sometimes being a demigod meant you could do really cool things. A few of Hermes' kids were able to run fast enough, they may as well be teleporting. Apollo's kids sometimes had prophecy, or the ability to bend light. Some of Aphrodite's kids could control you with their voice like a Jedi mind trick.

 Oliver, however, a child of Demeter, possessed an ability none of his siblings— or anyone else he'd ever met— did. He'd first noticed it on his father's farm, when orchis started growing in the pumpkin patch, and he found osmunda in his window box of violets, but it wasn't until the tulip tree sprouted in the bathtub that he realized these flowers weren't random— he was creating them.

 Different flowers came from different moods. Daffodils and daisies bloomed when he was happy. Black dahlias surrounded him when he was anxious. Hyacinth grew when he was sorrowful. Sometimes fruit would graft itself from a nearby tree when he was hungry. That one wasn't so bad, of course, but he could do without the rest of them. The trail of flowers that followed his emotions made him feel like a freak, even by demigod standards.

 One of his little demigod half-sisters, Calla, had done extensive research on Victorian flower language, and thought it was the coolest thing ever how the blossoms that surrounded him followed him and responded to his mood exactly, speaking a language that florists had spoken for more than a century. She'd always been able to read his flowers like a functional mood ring, and sometimes she'd explain them to him when he didn't understand them.

 But he didn't need her to tell him what the sweet-brier blossoms growing at his feet were about, because even though they sounded pleasant enough by name, well, a sweet-brier by any other name could still spell terror. As it was, he was quaking in his boots. It was his day to check the cabins, which wasn't ever so bad in and of itself, until he got to Cabin 5. The Ares cabin was bad enough to look at from the outside, but to go inside the house of horrors? That was terrifying.

 He approached the cabin nervously, glancing down at his clipboard and praying no more sweet-brier planted itself on the cabin doorstep.

 Someone in front of him opened the door, and he froze with fear. The only thing scarier than Ares' cabin was Ares' kids, and though he didn't know which of them would be at the door, he could guarantee he didn't want to find out.

 The camper in question, apparently, hadn't seen Oliver standing there, but she became very aware of his presence when she ran into him.

 "Watch it, punk." she said.

 "I'm sorry," Oliver said, his voice squeaking as several flowers cropped up around him, "I didn't mean to…."

 If there had been more to that sentence, Oliver forgot it when he looked up at her. He'd never dared get this close to an Ares kid before, but if anyone had told him they were this pretty, he would've much sooner. Her eyes were the color of freshly upturned soil, her skin like a field of ripened wheat touched by a sunrise, her hair the same shade of black as the leather jacket with the ripped off sleeves she wore over her Camp Half-Blood t-shirt.

 "You'd better not've," she said, pushing past him.

 Oliver barely had time to notice the crocus that sprouted between them before she pushed past him and stepped on it on her way out of the cabin.

~oliver's third summer~

 By the end of that summer, Oliver had gathered that the beautiful child of the war god was named Emilia, and he recalled her claiming a couple summers ago after a divisive and merciless Capture the Flag victory. Oliver hadn't been outgoing even then, and Emilia hadn't exactly ever played nice, so he'd had no problem avoiding her.

 But now, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

 As he packed up at the end of the summer, he kept an eye out the open door of his cabin, watching Cabin #5 more closely than ever before.

 Most of his siblings had already left by the time he decided it was time to go, a couple ox-eye daisies budding around his suitcase. He saw in the distance as Ares' cabin door opened and Emilia left. Oliver had planned and timed this, quickly grabbing his suitcase and hoping he could make it look like an accident that he happened to leave at the same time as her.

 "See you next summer," he called across the distance, waving at her, "have a great school year!"

 "Get lost already!" she grumbled back.

 The last two times he'd tried to talk to her, she'd ignored him entirely, so he took her upset response as a good sign, hoping she wouldn't see the snowdrops that blossomed around him.

~oliver's fourth summer~

 When you feel refreshed by time out in the garden, winter lasts an eternity. Just when you think there's hope for the browns and grays around you to awaken into green again, they're buried in another layer of heartless white.

 But, just as hope comes to fruition from the darkest souls, so springtime blooms out of winter's chill, and soon it was spring at McAdam farms, and Oliver was soon busy helping his father on the farm. The past few years, he'd done as much as he could in the spring and fall, wondering how his father even got on through the summer while he was away at camp.

 And once again, his father would have to manage, as Oliver found himself in the familiar fields of Camp Half Blood.

 In the past four years, Oliver had gotten better and better at controlling his emotions and their telltale flora. He still couldn't stop himself from growing monkshood in moments of panic or control what plants he created, but for the most part, he had a handle on his feelings in the minutiae of day-to-day life.

 That is, until he sat down for his first dinner of the summer at Camp Half-Blood, and saw Emilia at her sibling's table across the pavilion, laughing with a violent excitement at being together again. Oliver's life wasn't very exciting in the offseason, so one of the biggest points of interest that year had been the thought of Emilia.

 Despite his best attempts at restraint, his plate was soon covered in yellow blossoms, blooming out of his chicken nuggets in a feat of nature that would've been incredible if it wasn't so incredibly annoying.

 "Tarragon?" Calla asked, taking a seat next to him, "funny, I prefer ketchup on my chicken nuggets, myself."

 "Are you sure you don't want to try it?" Oliver joked, as he started to pick the flowers off his plate, hovering a few over her dinner plate as a taunt.

 "Oh, I'm good," she giggled.

 He looked up across the pavilion again, and saw that Emilia was looking at him. Granted, most of the camp was looking at him, almost as though they'd been awaiting the first of his accidental flowerings this summer. He only really noticed Emilia though, and how she smiled a little and rolled her eyes.

 Oliver didn't care that her smile was meant to taunt him, that she was laughing at him and not with him— he still saw something warm in it, and her smile made him smile.

 Unfortunately, her smile also made him sprout, a yellow tulip blossoming— not in front of him, but at the longest distance away he'd ever gotten a flower to bloom: right out of Emilia's blood red glass of cola.

 He looked back down at his food quickly as her siblings began laughing and her face flushed as red as her cola. When an Ares kid gets into a rage, you don't want to find yourself in their warpath, and Emilia was no exception. Oliver looked up, only a little, to see the crumpled tulip land on his dinner plate, though he knew that if flowers were a better projectile, she definitely could've taken his head off with it.

 "I guess I'm eating salad," he muttered, deadpan, shrugging as he stabbed at the head of the tulip and pretended to eat it.

 His siblings laughed, and he looked up to see Emilia, still upset, and he tried to convince himself that she didn't look cute when she was angry like that. He wasn't sure how she'd respond if his feelings accidentally covered her table in red roses, but he didn't want to find out, especially once she'd remember that roses have thorns.

 Instead, he kept his mind occupied by his quest to remove the plants from his dinner.

 "Don't think I don't know what that means," Calla whispered to him.

 "I know you do," Oliver said, without looking up.

 "Tarragon is for lasting interest," Calla said, "and even though everyone thinks yellow flowers just mean friendship, the yellow tulip goes deeper. It actually means 'there is sunshine in your smile." Isn't that so dreamy?"

 "I guess," Oliver chuckled.

 "You've had a crush on her since last summer?" she whispered. He looked up at her with a glare, "what makes you say that?"

 "It's so obvious," she said, "does she know?"

 He looked down at the crumpled tulip on the table.

 "I sure hope not."

~oliver's fourth summer~

 It wasn't uncommon for Ares kids to challenge each other to combat. Sometimes it was to air grievances, and sometimes it was to let off some steam, but usually it was just for fun.

 Oliver had never found it fun to fight or to watch fighting, but he was excited to watch the fight that broke out between Emilia and the new girl, Clarisse. Clarisse was young, but still a terrifying force, and Olilver wouldn't've wanted to face her, even before she'd gotten a month and a half of half-blood combat training.

 But Oliver was still rooting for Emilia. She was still older than Clarisse by a few years, and was one of the most formidable fighters at camp.

 "You think she's gonna win?" Calla asked, coming up behind Oliver and standing next to him as they watched this fight.

 "Who?" Oliver asked, without looking back at Calla, taking advantage of this chance to stare at Emilia.

 "The Easter Bunny," Calla said, sarcastically, then clarified, "Emilia."

 "Yeah," Oliver sighed, "isn't she so cool? She's such a talented fighter, and she knows exactly what she's doing, and her moves are so graceful and calculated, and…."

 "You need to get out of here," Calla's voice was suddenly serious.

 "What do you mean?" Oliver asked, but before the words were out of his mouth, he saw Emilia fall to the ground, having tripped on something. Clarisse was quickly at the ready, with a sword pointed at her neck before she had a chance to get up. He then noticed what she'd tripped on— dozens of trailing alyssum plants had grown at her feet.

 "Was that me?" Oliver asked.

 "No, it was the Easter Bunny again," Calla said, "you'd better run. If you're here when she gets up…" "Yeah, I know," Oliver said, taking off for his cabin, hoping Emilia wouldn't join the trail of peony that followed him away.

~oliver's fourth summer~

 Oliver tried to ignore the flowers at his feet as he sat on his cabin's steps. Over the last few days, Emilia had made it clear that she didn't want him, or his pity apologies and peony powers, within two hundred yards of her.

 But even two yards from her would've been too far for him, and no matter how physically distant he was, his crumbled heart was still with her.

 "Red carnations?" Calla interrupted Oliver's brooding silence.

 Oliver didn't respond.

 "Do you need me to tell you what that one means?"

 Calla sat down next to him. "'Alas, for my poor heart!' I always thought that was a strong sentiment for one plant to carry, but I get it now, mopey."

 "She won't even talk to me," Oliver shook his head, "I mean, she never talked to me, but she won't even let me apologize."

 "It probably wouldn't've worked out anyways," Calla said.

 "What's that supposed to mean?" If anyone would've understood his feelings, it was her. He sometimes wondered if his little sister had been misclaimed by Demeter, and if Aphrodite was her mom instead. She saw the potential for a relationship in anyone.

 "I mean, her dad's the god of war," Calla said, "our mom is the god of wildflowers."

 "The opposite of that," Oliver shook his head, "the harvest. Things we plant."

 "So, gardening."

 "Have you ever started a garden?" Oliver asked. When she shook her head, he continued, "you look at a piece of land, and you say, 'this is mine.' You mark off a territory, and you fight for it. You rip it apart by the roots, you make it yours, and you don't show mercy to any weeds or wildflowers that stand in the way. If you let your guard down for even a day, the enemy will choke you out. You have to keep fighting. Gardening is war, and if anyone could understand that…."

 He shook his head as his voice trailed away.

 "I didn't know you were such a fighter," Calla smiled, then nudged him, "and I bet Emilia doesn't know that either."

 Another red carnation sprouted at the mere mention of Emilia.

 "And she never will," he half laughed to shrug off the pain.

 "Not with that attitude," Calla said, "but maybe if you show her?"

 "How?" 

 "Maybe start with flowers," Calla suggested, motioning to the DIY bouquet at their feet.

 "Give her these?" Oliver asked.

 "It's a start," Calla said.

 "I can't do it."

 "You have to try."

 "No I don't."

 Calla shook her head and got up.

 "And here I thought you were a fighter."

 "So?" Oliver asked.

 Calla smiled and shrugged, "so fight for her."

 Oliver looked down at the flowers at his feet and knew exactly what to do.

 🥀

 He watched her cabin from a safe distance. He'd seen his brothers leave flowers for the Aphrodite girls all the time, but he had a feeling Emilia wouldn't respond the same way. It was just a simple bouquet with a note that said "I'm sorry," but he hoped the rich hue of the red flowers would appease her, like a sacrifice painted in the blood of her enemies.

 He watched as she opened the cabin door and picked up the bouquet, then re-entered her cabin.

 Did it work? Would she hear him out? Would she at least treat him civilly?

 He watched again as she left her cabin, holding the flowers upside-down, a lighter in her other hand (and where she got a lighter at camp, he didn't want to know.) The flame quickly licked up the plants, and she left the charred husk that remained on her cabin steps as a reminder.

 Oliver didn't need to hear that message twice. If his poor heart ached when he saw that happen, he wouldn't give her the flowers to prove it.

~emilia's third summer~

 Emilia had had just about enough of this flower boy, and it took her every last ounce of restraint to keep from burning down his cabin instead of just the red flowers he'd left at the doorstep yesterday. She couldn't imagine what would've happened if any of her siblings saw them before she got rid of them. They'd already given her a hard enough time about the tulip soda at the start of the summer and losing in battle to the new girl last week, she didn't need this ruining her image either. When would this pansy stop trying to embarrass her already?

 She smiled as he cowered away when she saw him at breakfast that morning. She'd put him in his place. Nobody, nobody makes Emilia Alvarez look stupid and gets away with it.

 🥀

 Emilia had been cornered by a lot of people in her life. Even mortals like her siblings back home and the bullies at school had seen her as easy prey for years— though the older she got, the less she let them give her problems. And demigods? Most of them would steer clear of her with just a glare, and the ones that didn't quickly learned their lessons.

 That's why she was so thrown off today, when a girl grabbed her by the arm and growled her name like it was some kind of curse.

 Emilia turned to see a girl ten inches shorter than her, with flowers braided in her hair and a necklace made of plastic daisies.

 "What's your problem?" Emilia asked.

 "No, what's yours?" the flower girl sneered.

 "Hey, I'm not usually in the mood to bust someone's nose right after eating," Emilia threatened, "but you wouldn't be the first, and you won't be the last."

 "Take your best shot," she said, "you could stand to lose dessert privileges the next few days."

 Emilia frowned, then smiled and pulled back to punch, but stopped when she saw the fear in her eyes.

 "I recognize you," Emilia said, "you're the one always hanging out with that punk."

 "Calla," she said, "and 'that punk' has a name— it's Oliver— and if he didn't care so much about you, I would've flattened you myself by now."

 "Back that train up," Emilia crossed her arms, "'Oliver' doesn't care about me. He's been using his flower powers to make me look stupid all summer."

 "I didn't know he goes for stupid," she sighed, "but he's absolutely crazy about you, so…."

 "'Crazy's' a good word for it, runt."

 "You don't understand," Calla said, "he hasn't been trying to make you look bad at all."

 "Well, he's got a funny way of showing it," she rolled her eyes.

 "He can't control it."

 "Can't control what?"

 "The flowers," Calla said, "they just kind of happen. He doesn't cause them— deliberately."

 "I don't buy that," Emilia asked, "you've got ten seconds to scram before I bash your brains in."

 "It's true!" she said, apparently undeterred, "they respond to his emotions. Like the tulips when someone's smile reminds him of the sunshine."

 "What?" Emilia asked, recalling the soda blossom at the start of the summer.

 "And the alyssum you tripped on?" Calla said, "when he likes someone for who they are, more than just their beauty." "Beauty?" Emilia asked, "He thinks I'm pretty?" "More than that," Calla said, listing a few things off on her fingers, "a skilled fighter, a queen on earth, the pride of Camp Half Blood. He won't shut up about you."

 Emilia tried to pretend that the red she could feel creeping across her cheeks was from anger, not because she was blushing. She tried to change the subject.

 "So you expect me to believe the bouquet of flowers with an apology note was an accident too?"

 "That one was my idea," Calla admitted, "a foolish attempt to get you to talk to him— but it was only flowers he'd already grown, borne of heartbreak. He's devastated, Emilia, and it's because of you."

 "Good," Emilia said.

 "I know you don't really think that," Calla said.

 "You don't know me." 

 "I know you would've pulverized me by now if you were glad you hurt him."

 Emilia could've pulverized her. She could've punched the smug grin off the flower child's face. She could've flattened her before she got a chance to turn heel and leave. She could've yelled a few insults, or chased after her and beat her down. Instead, Emilia stood in silence as she walked away.

 🥀

 Everything felt different as Emilia walked across the camp. Her heart raced like she was preparing for war. She smiled like she'd completed some conquest. Somehow she felt a little bit invincible— was this what love feels like?

 She started to notice things more too— most prominently, she noticed a trail of red flowers, just like the ones she'd burned yesterday. Now that she realized that was a declaration of love and not of war, she almost felt guilty crushing his heart in response. In fact, she did feel guilty— and she needed to make it up.

 She followed the trail of flowers to the shade behind cabin #4, where she saw Oliver sitting against the wall, lost in thought. She approached him with military stealth, and he didn't even notice as she stood right over him.

 "I thought I'd find you here," Emilia said.

 He looked up at her, startled, though she couldn't tell if it was a general startle or if it was because her presence had that effect on people.

 "Then again, the carnations gave you away."

 "Emilia!" he said, nervously jumping to his feet as though he were about to make a hasty escape, "don't worry, I'll, I'll get out of your way."

 "Not so fast, punk," Emilia said. She grabbed him by the back of his shirt and pulled him back, turning him around and pushing him against the wall in front of her, her arm pressing against his collarbone, "I had a talk with your little friend."

 "What about?" he asked, fear swirling in his eyes.

 "Something about you having a little crush on me," she narrowed her eyes, "is that true?"

 He looked down at the ground for a moment, then back up at her, meeting her eyes with his.

 "Yeah," he said, followed by a quick, "please don't kill me."

 For a moment, before his face washed with fear, she saw a confident determination, like a soldier prepared for war. She liked that more than she normally would've admitted. She also liked the fear in his eyes too— actually, maybe it was just that she liked his eyes, and the rest of his face as well.

 "Oh, don't worry," she said, pushing him harder against the wall, "I wouldn't do that. I can think of something a lot better to do with your face than pulverizing it."

 "Like what?" his voice squeaked.

 "Like this," she smiled.

 She leaned toward him and planted a kiss on his trembling lips, which stilled themselves as the world did, stopping itself and starting itself all over again.

 She pulled away, and he blinked a few times, stupefied. She ran a range of emotions she couldn't begin to place names to. He must've as well, because as she looked down at their feet, there must've been a dozen different flowers growing around them, entangling their roots, planting them both to the spot.

 But one flower stood out most to her, a couple bright orange blossoms she couldn't stop herself from picking.

 "Nasturtium," she said.

 "What?" Oliver asked, breathless, still clearly trying to regain his senses.

 "These grew back home," Emilia said, lost for a wistful moment as she twirled the buds between her fingers, "when I was a little girl, back in Chile."

 She met Oliver's eyes.

 "Know what this one means?"

 He shook his head.

 "Conquest," Emilia said, "victory in battle."

 She didn't explain how she knew, but he seemed too shocked still to even bother to ask.

 "I think I'll keep this one," she said, tucking the flower behind her ear, "if that's okay with you."

 "Yeah," he whispered.

 She could tell he was still processing, trying to figure out what was going on, and if there'd been a flower for confusion, it would've been in the garden growing between them. It might be best to give him time to weed out his thoughts— pun literally intended.

 "I'll talk to you later, okay?" she said.

 He started to say "yeah," but she planted a kiss on his cheek first, which apparently flipped a reset switch in his brain all over again.

 As Emilia walked away, she brushed her fingers along the flower behind her ear. She knew her siblings were gonna give her a hard time for it, but she'd give it right back to them. As much as she hated them picking on her, she'd tolerated it— but somehow she knew that if any of the others started poking fun at Oliver, she'd personally arrange a meeting between their head and a toilet, complete with a black eye as a parting gift.

 She'd heard someone on TV say that love was strength, and maybe they were right. As much as she'd always fought for herself, she was twice as prepared to fight for Oliver.

 Especially that day at lunch, when he gave her a whole bouquet of those bright orange nasturtium flowers, and though he was still apparently too tongue-tied to get out anything more than a "these are for you," the note he'd written on the card said it all in just how he addressed her: "to the champion who conquered my very heart"

[aisling-saoirse]

Cinnamon Fern - Osmunda Cinnamomea

One of the more interesting ferns, the cinnamon fern is named after the spice colored fertile frond (seen erect in image 2 and 3). Like all ferns this grows best in moist shade, however they can also grow in full sunlight in wetlands at the cost of leaf appearance being more leathery and yellow.

I commonly find these in mountains, Atlantic White Cedar swamps, and north facing slopes. Visible in picture 1+3, these can somewhat frequently be found growing near mountain laurels. All images are taken near the Appalachian trail. Native from Labrador Canada to the American southwest and the tropics. Allegedly, this species is the only living member of its genus and also native in Eastern Asia, which is extremely fascinating. Scientists believe this is one of the oldest still-living plant species according to late cretaceous fossil records.

[thebotanicalarcade]

n210_w1150 by Biodiversity Heritage Library Via Flickr: Le Règne végétal; Paris,L. Guérin,1870-72. biodiversitylibrary.org/page/12109070