burgeons in the corner of the flowerbed

beneath the kitchen window, overgrown

in a part of the yard we rarely travel.

It blooms, wildly and unabashed,

a woman in her prime who has stopped worrying so much

for the niceties of a younger age,

sprawling and spreading where it has rooted

beneath the rosemary, shaded and sure-footed in soil,

branches like hair that has been loosed, and long,

restraint abandoned. We cut some for the kitchen

when we can no longer shop for more delicate flowers,

the length of its long arms– yellow and white budded–

fill the window with light and scent, it knows

its strong beauty is something indigenous here.