She isn’t a thief. She just takes things that aren’t hers.
Call it reclaiming, urban renewal of the plant variety, or adoption. She looks at plants like a junky looks at unlocked bikes. From 50 paces, She can spot a lonely plant growing from mangy sidewalk. Her eyes light up when we stumble upon an unguarded poppy, sitting on an ambiguous property line. Gold Mine.
Her fever increases with each day of spring. Shes got dirty hands, a piece of cardboard and a hook. The mysterious immigrant plants appear in our little yard, the little frankenstein mob grows overnight. Each little cluster serve their cause, some to look beautiful and some for our food. A few more dont make it, they die post operation, mid transplant. These are the ones she mourns. “I dont think the little guys going to make it,” she says, referring to the wilting green cluster in the back row. Maybe it was the lack of sunlight, maybe it was the soil or the trama of relocation, whatever the reason it doenst make it.
But there are more. There are always more, along the road, in the cracks or by the wayside. Those little discarded treasures, waiting to be scooped up, even if it has to be at midnight.