Along with much of the continental United States, my garden has been stuck in freezer mode since Saturday morning. There hasn’t been snow, per se, but instead, the wintry mix weather folk like to talk about. The sleet started over night Saturday into Sunday, the thin blanket of ice covering everything, everywhere, all at once (with apologies to that worthy Academy Award winner of a few years ago).

Here in Austin, we’d experienced one light freeze before this deeper, longer one, prompting my check for the swirly ice sculptures which give native plant Frostweed, Verbesina virginica, its name. No ice capades appeared in my garden during that first freeze, but this deeper freeze delivered a dramatic frost show–but on only one of my Frostweed plants. Usually each plant produces its own icy artwork–ranging from bombastic to minimalist–but this winter, one of my largest and oldest specimens was the sole artist-in-residence.

The beauty of the ice, fragile and ephemeral, belies the rather violent nature of the super frozen moisture as it bursts through the plant’s stem structure, destroying limbs of the now-ended growing season. Frostweed is done; I will prune the remains to the ground soon. In a matter of weeks, spring will beckon, fresh growth will emerge, and the cycle for a new year of foliage, blooms, seeds, and ice flowers will commence.

The ice sculptures are called many names: ice flowers, ice ribbons, frost flowers, and more; my favorite of the nicknames is ice beards.

On less swirly–though still slippery–ice, this this Fox Squirrel, enjoyed some scattered seeds and peanuts for breakfast these past mornings.

Birds are also busy at the seeds, though this White-winged Dove, Zenaida asiatica, was content to chill in the chill.

One of the winter warblers hanging out in my garden, a darling Yellow-rumped Warbler, Setophaga coronata, is unfazed by the cold. He bopped around the garden, nibbling on this-n-that, dashing to shrubs and trees for protection.

Once this freeze is history, I’ll assess the damage to the garden. I don’t expect any permanent problems, as I choose tough plants to grow. But winter pruning must begin this week and the next 6 to 8 weeks are my busiest time in the garden. The goal of pruning completion is the first week of March; wish me good luck with that!

Winter has left its impression the garden.

I grow a rare plant in my Austin garden. A cluster of Big Red Sage, Salvia pentstemonoides, resides at the corner where the street and my driveway intersect.

I first became familiar with this plant years ago, having read an article about a gorgeous, deep-red flowering plant that’s found only in a few counties of Central Texas. At one time, Big Red was thought to be extinct, but colonies of the plant where discovered, seeds collected, and some in the local nursery trade propagated the lovely plant for sale. When when I managed the Green Garden at Zilker Botanical Gardens, a previous gardener had planted several and those played a starring role in the front, full-sun garden, much to my. I’ve purchased several individual plants at two local nurseries over the years and my little cluster has thrived.

Big Red is pollinated by the Black-chinned Hummingbird, Archilochus alexandri, which hangs out in Texas during late spring and summer, migrating southward in September and October.

Other insects, like various carpenter bees and even honeybees, will visit the blooms, often nectar stealing from the flower, nosing deep into the calyx, puncturing the calyx-held flower for the sweet stuff.

Big Red Sage is a showy thing in the summer garden. Mine grow stalks about 3 feet high, though I’ve read that the stalks in natural areas reach to 5 feet tall.

Since 1975, this rare flower in decline has awaited its turn for protection by the US Fish and Wildlife Service. In January of 2025, the Service finally proposed that Big Red Sage be listed as an endangered species. Drought, floods, animal browsing (both native and introduced), and urban development are all adding stress to this rare plant; fewer wild colonies exist compared to when I first learned about the plant years ago. The official protection granted makes illegal the collection of Big Red Sage seeds from wild colonies. Check out this press release from the Center for Biological Diversity, the key organization which pressured, through a lawsuit, the US Fish and Wildlife Service to protect the Texas beauty.

I usually prune the stalks to the ground in November, leaving the dark leaves of the winter rosette as a reminder of summer’s glory. Though most stalks have ceased blooming, often there’s at least one hold-out bloomer, which you can see at the top left part of the photo. This plant just doesn’t want to quit!

The Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center is currently researching this plant, spending time collecting seeds in protected areas to learn about its biology, which you can read about here. The team of scientists and volunteers are seed-banking collected seeds from specific colonies to ensure the survival if wild specimens disappear. My understanding is that there are no plans to sell either seeds or the plants germinated from the collected seeds in order to protect the diversity and genetic strength of the remaining native colonies.

I sometimes feel a bit awkward as the guardian of this plant as it’s too precious for a common, urban garden! I purchased the plants that I have, as Big Red is a commercially available in some native plants nurseries. Mine have never germinated to create new plants and I don’t live in a neighborhood with many actual gardens (lawns, lawns, lawns!), so even if my sages produced offspring, it’s likely I could control where the plants grow. Still, as Texas and the wider world becomes less biologically diverse, I’m pleased that I have some of these rare and beautiful plants in my garden, for their looks, their pollinator draw, and for their uniquely Texan heritage.

After four years of growth, my Flameleaf Sumac, Rhus lanceolata, a seedling gift from a neighbor, has finally come in to its eagerly awaited flame-y-ness. The young tree bloomed in August–pleasing the pollinators; set fruit shortly thereafter, which produced a bird buffet; now, it rocks its namesake in lovely fall color. The first photos, on a misty day earlier this month, demonstrates the beginning of the color change.

I like the mix of green and flame. Truthfully, my Flameleaf has never achieved its flame potential. Many Flameleaf sumacs show off in varieties of rich red foliage; check out Portraits of Wildflowers for some stunning photos. My young Flameleaf’s foliage ranges from yellow to mauve to orange. Deeper colored leaves are just shy of true red.

I’m okay with the orange-y tone, though. I wanted fall color and the Flameleaf has provided; I won’t criticize its choice of hue and I’m happy this plant is a member of good standing in my garden.

After four years, the still growing Flameleaf, situated next to its sister sumac, an equally young Evergreen Sumac, Rhus virens (the dark green, smaller shrub to the Flameleaf’s left), and, further left, a glorious Red Oak tree, Quercus buckleyi, are all large and autumnal enough to gratify my initial end-of-growing season vision for this front garden. The silver foliaged shrubs and tawny Big Muhly grasses are worthy companions to the reds and oranges, garden greens offering a soothing background. Central Texas’s fall color morphs in its own time, flushed out slower than in northern climes, but foliage change eventually happens.

Just two days after the above photo, the fall colors deepened.

The Flameleaf orange pops against a winter sky.

Two weeks later, the foliage on the tree was no more, but dropped and blanketed over the ground, keeping company with emerging spring wildflowers.

As 2025 ends, the tree is bare, dormant and prepared for a few months of colder temperatures.

May 2026 provide the appropriate environment for more growth, change, and beauty for this tree–and all other things.