Until a Thing Takes Root

I remember the Solomon’s seal regifted to me by Rosemary for the garden gone wild after five years of neglect. The arc of shaded green promising tender white bells that I am determined to get in the garden, in the small little corner that looks like it might thrive. And ignore the rest. Rosemary knows this. Knows how to ignore the rest and bring beauty into a pocket of wilderness.
 
We have been so long without green things growing in this life. This post-stroke life of constant care for a daughter who has gone dormant. And this, the Solomon’s seal, a token of friendship, a tender nudge for trying again and again until a thing takes root. This little corner of life and green and delicate bells hanging like dew drops, filling up the space with fleeting spring beauty.
 
I know that planted, it will thrive. Or planted, it will do what it will. But how good to nurture, to plant something only for beauty, not duty. The wasteland that is the backyard, our fractured lives, can come to life again with borrowed bits from friends. The Solomon’s seal, the hosta, the blood root, the lily. They come unbidden, dropped off with small notes of “plant me,” or “over here.”
 
I wear old torn pants, get my hands dirty. Forget for a moment the caregiver me, the tired me, the wandering me and gaze with wonder at the small corner that is beginning to bloom in the wilderness.