Bleeding hearts, a Colorado perennial that never fails, is close to my heart

Bleeding hearts, a Colorado perennial that never fails, is close to my heart

Bleeding heart (Dicentra). (Getty Images)

Editor’s Note: This is part of The Know series, an employee favorite. Each week we offer our opinions on the best Colorado has to offer for dining, shopping, entertainment, outdoor activities and more. (We’ll also let you in on some hidden gems.)


Gardening in Colorado is not for the faint-hearted.

He took me Contracts From battling clay soil, grubs, slugs, beetles, weeds, drought, and my own ignorance to reaching a comfortable truce with my garden. I no longer raise my hands in disgust every time I walk outside.

But it was a difficult and expensive road.

In the spring, I was saying a prayer for my victims as I purchased hundreds of dollars’ worth of perennials and annuals, many of whom were destined to die in short order. In my East Coast transplant, I had high hopes for those acid-loving rhododendrons and blue Cape Cod hydrangeas. I had ridiculous visions of South Florida azaleas and bougainvilleas thriving at 5,000 feet (RIP, beautiful plants). Thousands are spent on soil additives, organic fertilizers and pampering, all of which are useless.

The honey bee extracts pollen and nectar from mountain mint. (Getty Images)

Even plants that He should I survived around my central Denver home (I’m looking at you, the dozens of Columbine’s who rejected my affection, or the handful of clematis that wilted on my trellis) never stood a chance. Every year, same thing. Overwhelming rejection.

It takes its toll on the soul.

But this year, I’ve come to terms with my inability to consistently nurture nature. Thanks in part to the unusual rains this spring, I’m focusing instead on what I mean Can Grow more than I can. And it all started early, when my beloved bleeding hearts raised their little heads on either side of my high bed, a reminder that I don’t care exactly how things grow.

These babies spread quickly in little piles of leaves, and when the first little drop of pink appears… ouch. “You can do this,” they whisper.

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