Three weeks, and its leaves and stems remain in living green. Transplant of a winter cutting shouldn’t work, but then, most plants don’t blossom in winter.
But this one does. It’s a reason that it’s special.
It’s leaves are spreading once again from tight and wrap in travel. It bends and reaches into room. Light fixture over dinner table is its sun, and towards it, plants’ leaves fan in face.
On it, too, true sun shines for a time through blinds in morning hours of ascending angled light.
I water it each day, enough to keep the soil damp knowing the biggest thing that I can do for it to live and thrive is to help it set and put down roots; rots grown from a cutting in winter-time, that shouldn’t work—but might.
Laurel has its magics and its mysteries—as all living spirits do—a reason I want to see it grow, what it will become: evergreen and blossom white and symbol to a home.
In springtime, should it last, I’ll transplant cuttings to the earth; tearing out the kind of bushes that grow evergreen with small round leaves, feel plastic and never bloom.
I want a home and plants that bloom. It’s the blossomings from time and wait that give beauty and purpose to the rest.
I want to watch it grow, see it fill, to look upon its sight from rest and writing window view; its stack of fine white blossoms dappled in the green.
It’s an ideal, but I am an idealist of strong romantic vein. It’s why I love to write, to grow my gardens and plants for which I care.
Watered, tended, cultivated—anything can grow.
I water it again. I greet its morning green—food for spirit (if plants need such)—helping it take root.