I move closer and stand again to enjoy. Every little white flower head is moving: not exactly a nod, and not exactly a shake, but somehow a mix of both. They shiver, not with the cold, for spring is warming now, but maybe with excitement to be growing with such freedom.
I move closer still and discover what these shiny white flowers are: in my vegetable garden I call them onion weed and yank them out. Yet here I am admiring their massed presence.
A weed, said someone, is a plant in the wrong place. Is onion weed good or bad? Foolish question. I laugh at the illusion of duality.