Wild Rosemary

The rosemary at the corner of the house is in bloom. It's wild where the rosemary blooms. The bee hides there. See her? Almost dead center--a black spot just left of a cluster of flowers that nature decorated with moss blown from the oak tree by the wind. I thought I had her when she hid in time between the opening of the shutter and its closing. She has her right to privacy, I suppose.

The rosemary, like all memory, is wild and full of bees. I'd say this is true especially where it grows thickest. Notice that here, around the corner, in such a graceful sweep towards the future nothing hides, and one wouldn't believe I'm such a careless gardener. I'm actually not a gardener at all. Even without intention I turn out to let the wild things be. And despite that, or because of it: a classic sweep of grace.