I usually refer to my Barbados Cherry in the singular. But it is time to admit there is now more than one. In fact, I find it hard to really put a number on the number of plants that now comprise what I should rightly call my Barbados Cherry grove. It might be a mini-Pando, the one-tree aspen forest in Utah made up of over 47,000 trunks, and millions of leaves, connected through one root system. Or it could be little cherries have fallen, taken root and grown.

Whatever it is, the Barbados Cherry has enlarged it’s footprint in the garden and seems set to stay as long as humans will let it. Even Snowmageddon in 2022 did little to stem the tide. The shrub dies back in the winter, leaf’s out fresh in the spring, and brings forth blooms and fruit in the fall. It’s got the cycle down and needs little assistance from me, although, I do trim back the deadwood in the spring to make room for the new growth. I suppose if I really wanted to let it live on its own, I’d forego even that task.

I’m glad the plant has decided to stay. I love the tiny leaves and delicate pink blooms that give way to the smallest of cherries. It’s a showy plant up close, but you won’t see it in the distance and come running. I like that. There should always be a plant in the garden that surprises the visitor upon closer inspection. It encourages the desire look and see rather than admire with half opened eyes. It’s like a paint stroke on a Vermeer. A touch of light in the morning. A cloud in the evening sky. The light touch of a loving hand in passing.