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
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,