Royal poincianas

There are so many spectacular flowering trees, but the royal poinciana (Delonix regia) must be at the top for sheer extravaganza.

The first photo is of the tree on the other side of the road. It's not the typical shape, which is umbrella-like. The second photo, taken one block away, is more like it. You can also see two more further down, and in May and June, this is a common sight -- a tunnel of vermilion.

Poincianas (also known as flamboyants or flame trees) are true tropicals and I'm not sure how far north it grows, but probably not above Lake Okeechobee.

The first time I ever saw one I was visiting Guiana with my father. As I stood gobsmacked by the glorious sight, my poor old dad couldn't understand what I was talking about. Turns out that poincianas are all brown if you have red/green color blindness. Sadly, I also have the gene since I passed it on to my son. He can't appreciate them, either.

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing Cassia bakeriana

I'm going to let the photos do the talking.

Stemmadinia littoralis: An ideal tree for a small, tropical garden

"Lechoso" is a small tree, native to Central America, that's gaining well-deserved popularity; Fairchild Garden made it the 2009 Tree of the Year. It has an open habit and produces delightfully perfumed white flowers throughout the warmer months. Ideally, it should be planted near open windows, outside seating, or somewhere you can benefit from the scent.

I planted mine a few years ago and it's about 12' tall, now. The literature says it will reach about 20'. It's shaded from the strong afternoon sun by an oak. Apparently, it's happier with the shade, but other than that, it doesn't require any maintenance, being quite happy to do its own thing.

Another benefit is that it didn't seem to suffer much from the freeze, despite getting the full force of the northwesterly wind. It dropped some leaves, but it's blooming again now. That makes me think it might work in Zone 9 in a sheltered spot.

Erythrina: Eye candy for a spring day

I came across this Erythrina in Coral Gables. After shedding its leaves it produced these stunning blooms.Glorious!

The divine scent of lemon blossom

A friend's lemon tree is in bloom and I could have spent my day sitting close to it.

Do you remember the calypso? "Lemon tree very pretty/ And the lemon flower is sweet/ But the fruit of the poor lemon/ Is impossible to eat."

For your list of things to do before you die: Walk, cycle or drive (with open windows) on a drowsy, sunny day through citrus groves when the trees are in bloom. You'll neither regret nor forget the experience.

Avocados

We've had two consecutive years of a bumper avocado crop. Unfortunately, they're not my favorite fruit, but these are a good variety and they'll spread like butter across a sandwich. I've been giving them away to anyone who wants some, but they're still way too many and the squirrels are having a fine old feast.

Last year, I gave some to Sparky. He wolfed them down and got diarrhea in the house, so he's not having any more. Some people I used to know moved, with their skinny black lab, to a house with several avocado trees. The next time I saw the dog, he was easily double the size. I think the owners finally resorted to putting a muzzle on him during avo season.

But why do trees make so much fruit when it only takes one successful germination to replace the parent? I found an answer in a 1990 movie called Mindwalk, starring Sam Waterston, John Heard and Liv Ullmann. It's kind of a forerunner to What the #*!$ Do We Know, with just as flimsy a "plot."

Waterston plays a failed presidential candidate who meets up with his poet pal, Heard, at Mont St Michel, off the Brittany coast. The film is all about the conversation they start with Ullmann's character, a Norwegian quantum physicist. It's she who puts forward the hypothesis that the tree -- my avocado -- is part of a much greater system and as such, the abundance of fruit nourishes the system, which in turn protects a new seedling, later to become the replacement tree.

James Lovelock wrapped this up in his Gaia Hypothesis, which has always appealed to me.

Another flowering tree mystery

What is this tree?

Scarlet and gray

The rainy weather affords some dramatic contrast. In this case, the brilliant red against a dark stormy sky was stunning.

I need to learn how to use my camera properly, because the automatic setting didn't really do it justice. You'll just have to take my word for it, but keep your eyes open for your own examples.

Jacaranda

Here's another flowering tree that's doing well this season. The usual kind, Jacaranda mimosifolia, doesn't really like this climate; it's too humid and not cool enough in the winters. In 1982, when we lived on Maui, up in Kula on Haleakala, the drive up the mountain took us past a row of glorious jacarandas, but I've heard that the best place to see them is Cape Town.

Still, this winter's cold weather seems to have been sufficient to kick South Florida's jacarandas into high gear; my neighbor's is fabulous.

A better species for our climate is Jacaranda cuspidifolia, which produces bigger flower spikes. I had one, but Hurricane Katrina took it out. These pictures, taken a couple of weeks ago, are of the one at Fairchild.

A stunning cassia

This eye candy is Cassia bakeriana, and it's causing quite a stir in the neighborhood. The individual blooms are large and they have the same coloring as apple blossom -- as two neighbors have already noted.

She's a fast grower; I only planted her three years ago, and it's getting on for 20'. I suspect it won't do well in a hurricane.

Still, we can enjoy her while she lasts.

Impermanence

The tabebuias flower in the spring.

D.C. has its cherry blossoms; the tabs are South Florida's response.

I grew three yellow tabs (Tabebuia caraiba) from seed. They did well, putting on a respectable show, but now, thanks to one tropical storm or another, only one remains. You can see it in front of the pink tab (T. heptaphylla).

The pink tabs are glorious this year, which may be because it was a cold (relatively) and very dry winter.

This one only put on her best display once since we've lived here - 14 years, I think. She was stunning. A few months later, she was also felled by a hurricane. A live oak now grows in her place, nourished by Maggie, our much loved chocolate lab, who is buried beneath it.

Nothing in a garden is static, which is its joy and its sadness.