The oxalis are the epitome of resilience. They come back year after year, after the first sprinkles of rain. No matter how deep I dig, the roots burst open ,spewing more pods than my hand rake can manage.
I finally came to peace with the sour grass, came to admire it's piss yellow color, green clover leaves, and the ability to proliferate. It dies each spring leaving pathetic bunches of dried up ocher that easily pull out if you don't wait until the soil is completely. I let it be my winter ground cover, enjoy the fullness of the garden, the excuse to not weed, but let it be a native plant.
Like the oxalis, I am tenacious. I hold on, I come back. I burst my root pod and see what takes hold. I know when to spread. I know the kiss of the hummingbird tongues and the gentle feelers of the monarch. Like the clover, I am lucky in love, fortunate to live in abundance and acceptance. My bright color attracts the bees who spread the buzz about my fabulous pollen, spreading the seeds of peace, the seeds of change.
While some see me as trembling in the wind, I merely vibrating with a joy of being alive. I am photosynthetic, I taken the light and nurture myself, roots and core. I take in the water, I'm hydrated, full of vigor. I know went to hibernate under the mulch, trusting that the rains will return.
