Only the Bohemian would take the Valentine’s Day rose he brought me, and try to eek out more life from the love offering.
I teased him when he clipped the stem into two pieces, planting the bud into the soil of our potted spider plant by the kitchen sink. He wanted to see if it would root. And I laughed harder when he took a section of the thorny stem and stuck it in a bottle of water.
But he was laughing at me a few days later when he asked, “Have you seen my rose?”
Because my rose, had now become his latest gardening experiment, and by golly, that stem had a shoot of new growth.
“I’m making roses!” he grinned.
I can see that look in his eyes, as he gazes out at the yard, imagining the new rose garden he’ll have started, all from the gesture of one single holiday bloom to me.
Neither one of us has bothered to research the odds of a stem sprouting to create, what would be, a bona fide rose-bush bearing flowers. At this point, we’re just observing with great interest (note those hair-like roots coming off the top of the stem, as well).
We’ll keep you posted on the love blossom.
Within the confines of the coded gate are the manicured lawns of million-dollar homes with sweeping ocean views. It’s a quietly-known, favorite spot for locals, as pedestrians and bicyclists are given free access to this protected haven from sunrise to sunset.
Today’s rainy morning keeps most the dog-walkers at home, though the construction workers arrive at the most recent building project with steaming styrofoam cups of coffee from the mini-mart. Hoots and hammers are heard from the raw beams being erected in early light.
I take my gentle walk along the smoothly paved road, noticing the muddied prints of a pig. This island is fraught with wild pigs and chickens, both considered invasive nuisances, and both of which observe no regard for boundaries.
On one side of the paved path is a mansion with a mythic ocean view. On the other side, is the old, rusting wire fence, marking the end of nature groomed, and the beginning of jungle wild. I can see the bent wire at the base, the hole where pigs will enter, sans any gate code.
It humors me to see cloven hoof prints making tracks on the leveled street. They are like dainty shoes carrying pudgy bodies that do not heed a fence line. Unaware, they tread on prime real estate. Leave their mark.
Neighboring mammals, much the same as ourselves.