Wattle Quotes

“Cootamundra wattle

Meaning: I wound to heal
Acacia baileyana | New South Wales

Graceful tree with fern-like foliage and bright golden-yellow globe-shaped flower heads. Adaptable, hardy evergreen, easy to grow. Profuse flowering in winter. Heavily fragrant and sweetly scented. Produces abundant pollen, favored for feeding bees in the production of honey.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“At the sight of Ruth, singing and crying in the moonlight, they say Jacob Wyld crouched wordlessly and planted seeds at her feet, in the earth between the roots of the gum tree. What grew from that night, where Ruth's tears fell to the earth, was a heath of wild vanilla lilies, and an equally heady love affair between Ruth and Jacob.
They met at the river whenever Ruth could get away. He brought her flower seeds and she brought him whatever meager food scraps she could sneak from the house.
Soon Ruth had enough seeds to till a small, shaded corner of dirt near the house, where a nearly dead, lone wattle tree stood. The dirt was so dry it took her a month to soften it with whatever water she could carry from the river. Eventually, the wattle tree exploded into flower, a winter blaze of sweet yellow. Ruth fell to her knees at the sight. The scent floated all the way into town. Bees droned around the tree, drunk on its nectar. Beneath the wattle were circles of green shoots. Ruth sketched each one in her small notebook. As they bloomed, so different to the foxgloves and snowdrops of her mother's songs, Ruth noted down what they meant to her, adapting the Victorian language of flowers. The strange and beautiful native flowers, able to flourish in the harshest conditions, enchanted Ruth; none more so than the deep scarlet flowers with red centres the color of the darkest blood. Meaning, Ruth wrote in her notebook, have courage, take heart.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“She was studying a nearby bush covered with vibrant yellow pompom flowers.
"Wattle," he said.
"Golden wattle," she corrected.
"You're right."
"Did you know," she began, "that the seedlings from a golden wattle can live for up to fifty years?"
"That so?"
"That's a long time."
"It is."
"How old are you?"
"Younger than fifty." He was thirty-six, in fact.
"Wattle seeds are germinated by bushfires." Evie Turner nodded with vague disdain toward her parents, still engaged in heated discussion in the distance. "She's frightened of bushfires. That's because she's English. But I'm not. I'm Australian and golden wattles are my favorite flower and I'm not going to live in England no matter what she thinks."
With that, before Percy had a chance to tell her that golden wattles were his favorite, too, she'd run off to join the adults, sun-browned legs leaping over fallen logs with the expertise of one who seemed more familiar with this lonely place than she ought to be.”
― Kate Morton, Homecoming