flower photography – Michael Stephen Wills Photography

Stewart Park, Cayuga Lake, Ithaca, New York

Seen from Stewart Park, these lakefront homes line the southern shore of Cayuga Lake. Tompkins County, Ithaca, New York State. The Finger Lakes Region

On a warm June morning, with the early summer sun casting a golden glow across the shores of Cayuga Lake, Pam and I set out for a walk around Stewart Park. The soft lapping of the water against the shore mixed with the calls of distant birds, and the familiar hum of life in the park settled into a rhythm that has long been a part of this place. As I strolled along a familiar path, a flash of orange caught my eye—the unmistakable brilliance of the Hemerocallis fulva, the Tawny Daylily, in full bloom.

A Glimpse of the Familiar

At first glance, the orange petals of the daylily seemed like small flames scattered across the green of the park, their brightness undimmed by the heat of the day. The sight was both familiar and captivating, for these daylilies are common in garden, parks and roadsides around Ithaca and much of New York State. Despite their prevalence, each encounter feels fresh, like meeting an old friend who always has something new to share.

I knelt closer, letting my eyes follow the curve of the petals, which unfurled gracefully from a vibrant yellow throat. The delicate lines streaked down the petals like rays of sunlight. Though each flower lives only a day, I felt the quiet confidence of this plant, as though it knew its bloom was fleeting, yet still essential in the tapestry of summer.

The Resilience of a Traveler

The daylily’s ubiquity belies its status as a traveler from distant lands. Hemerocallis fulva is not native to New York, nor to any part of North America. It came to these shores from Asia, introduced by gardeners who admired its hardiness and vibrant color. Over time, the daylily escaped the bounds of cultivated gardens, spreading to roadsides, fields, and yes, even here, to the edges of Stewart Park.

I find myself reflecting on the journey of this plant, which began in the faraway lands of China, Korea, and Japan. In its homeland, daylilies have long been symbols of devotion and motherhood, their roots used in traditional medicine, their blooms celebrated in art. Now, as I stand in Stewart Park, I marvel at how far the Hemerocallis fulva has come, adapting to new lands and naturalizing in the wild corners of the American landscape.

The irony of its “wild” appearance does not escape me—this orange beauty, so deeply associated with our rural and parkland settings, is still very much an outsider. And yet, in the soft breeze of the morning, it feels as though this plant has always belonged here, as much a part of the park’s landscape as the willows by the lake or the ducks bobbing in the water.

Nature’s Balancing Act

As lovely as they are, daylilies are not without their complications. The very same traits that make Hemerocallis fulva such a beloved garden plant—its resilience, its ability to thrive in poor soil, and its spreading rhizomes—also make it an unintentional invader. Without careful tending, these plants can spread aggressively, pushing out native species and altering the ecological balance of the areas where they take root.

Here in Stewart Park, where cultivated gardens meet the untamed edges of the lake, the daylilies are a reminder of nature’s delicate balance. They offer nectar to bees and butterflies, providing sustenance to the creatures that flit through the morning air and also represent challenge to the native wildflowers that have long called this place home.

I wonder what plants might have once thrived in this very spot before the Hemerocallis fulva arrived. Perhaps native species, like the delicate Asclepias tuberosa—Butterfly Weed—or the sturdy Rudbeckia hirta, the Black-eyed Susan, held court here, their blooms attracting the same bees now drawn to the daylilies.

The Fleeting Bloom

Despite its role as a naturalized non-native, the daylily has a fleeting grace that draws me in. By tomorrow, these orange blooms will have withered and fallen, replaced by new blossoms that will unfurl in their place. Each bloom’s brief life is a reminder of the ephemerality of beauty, and I find myself appreciating the daylily all the more for its transient nature.

We continue our walk, leaving behind the patch of daylilies but taking with me a sense of quiet reflection. As invasive as they may be, these plants offer a meditation on the impermanence of life and the ways in which non-native species can become a part of the landscape’s fabric, for better or worse. The Hemerocallis fulva may not belong here by birthright, but it has made a place for itself, a symbol of survival and adaptation in the ever-changing world around it.

A Lesson from the Daylily

As I near the edge of the lake, watching the sunlight dance across the water’s surface, I think about the lessons that the daylily offers. Life is fleeting, yes, but also full of color and vibrancy, no matter how brief the bloom. And in that brief bloom, there is the possibility of resilience, growth, and belonging, even in a place far from home.

Much like the daylily, we too find ourselves in unfamiliar places at times, learning to adapt, to thrive, and to leave our mark on the world—if only for a day.

Copyright 2024 Michael Stephen Wills All Rights Reserved

The Epiphyllum oxypetalum, commonly known as the Queen of the Night, is a remarkable plant. Native to Central America, this epiphyte is known for its large, fragrant flowers that bloom only once a year and last just for a single night. The fleeting nature of its bloom makes it a symbol of transience and beauty in many cultures. For me, this flower is a quiet, intimate connection to the rhythms of nature that play out around our home in Ithaca, New York.

The images you see include the last flower of the season, a white starburst of delicate petals encasing a universe of intricate details. As the day progresses, the flower remains open, revealing the next chapter in its life cycle—the possibility of forming fruit. This potential is entirely dependent on pollination, a process that is both beautifully simple and astonishingly complex.

A honeybee, a tiny yet essential participant in the grand scheme of things, hovers and lands delicately on the flower. In the first image, the bee appears tentative, exploring the outer fringes of the flower’s central structures. Its wings are still, as if it has just touched down after a careful, deliberate approach. The stamens, like a thousand arms extended in welcome, offer their pollen. Each grain of pollen is a promise, a potential seed, carried with the hope of propagation. The bee is the flower’s messenger, moving from one bloom to another, ensuring the continuity of life.

As I observe the bee’s actions through these photographs, I can’t help but reflect on the importance of these small creatures. Their work often goes unnoticed, yet without them, our ecosystems would collapse. The honeybee, in particular, has been a focus of concern in recent years due to declining populations, largely attributed to human activities. But here, in my garden, this bee is simply going about its day, unaware of the broader implications of its existence. It is focused on the task at hand, a model of mindfulness in action.

In the second and third images, the bee has moved deeper into the flower, its body now dusted with pollen. It is fully engaged in its work, undeterred by the enormity of its task. The pink style of the flower contrasts sharply with the white petals and the yellow stamens, creating a vibrant tableau of life. The bee’s body is now part of this scene, its presence both functional and aesthetic. It is not just a visitor; it is an integral part of the flower’s story.

The fourth and fifth images capture the culmination of the bee’s efforts. Having gathered what it came for, the bee is ready to move on, its job done here. The flower, too, has fulfilled its role for the season. The energy it expended to produce this magnificent bloom will now be directed towards forming fruit, provided that the pollination process is successful. If it is, this single flower will give rise to a new generation of plants, continuing the cycle of life.

But there is another, more personal layer to this story. This is the last flower of the season. It carries with it the weight of finality, the knowledge that soon the plant will rest, conserving its energy for the next year’s bloom. As I contemplate this, I am reminded of the cycles that govern not just plant life, but all life. There is a time for blooming, a time for fruiting, and a time for rest. Each phase is essential, each one a preparation for the next.

A bonus view of the honeybee in action

In allowing this flower to form fruit, I am participating, in a small way, in this cycle. We are stewards of the natural world, responsible for nurturing and preserving the life forms that share our planet. The honeybee, the flower, and I are all connected in this intricate web of life, each playing our part in the unfolding drama of existence.

These photographs are a meditation on life, a reminder of the beauty and fragility of the world around us. They capture a moment in time, brief encounters between a flower and a bee, but they also speak to something larger, something timeless. The Epiphyllum oxypetalum may bloom for just one night, but its impact, like that of the honeybee, reverberates far beyond that brief window. And in that, there is a profound lesson for all of us.

Use Search or Select a Category from this drop down

Tag: flower photography

Cayuga Lake’s Daylilies: A Symbol of Survival and Adaptation