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The rosemary plant lives inside in winter
(and a good thing, too).
I water it. I cut off the occasional branchlet
to add to a stew.
I notice—oh, dear rosemary!—its warm scent
when I brush against it.
But mostly I ignore it.
When I share space with it
I am usually reading,
an activity about which I am single-minded,
to say the least.
So I don't know why one winter day
I looked up from my book
and gazed idly in the direction of the
rosemary plant.
The sun bounced off the snow in the yard
and hit my rosemary full tilt.
Holy cow! I said.
The needles on that plant are sunlit.
If I were to paint it, each horizontal needle
would be a white hyphen.
I began to scan the plant
to count how many needles would need
the white-paint treatment.
But then I blinked
and the sun went behind a cloud.
Within seconds the illuminated needles faded
to dull gray-green.
The rosemary returned to its normal,
sweet-smelling,
nondescript
self.
