About a month ago, I bought a rosemary plant at the farmer’s market. Not having had much success in the past at nurturing plants, I asked the man who sold it to me for advice. He said to keep it warm indoors somewhere near a window, water it once a week, and plant it outside in the beginning of May.
The time for planting has come. I am ready. I leave tomorrow for New York City with my backpack and sleeping bag, ready to plant myself, my body and picket sign and loud voice, in front of the New York Stock Exchange or the headquarters of any of the numerous corporations that murder people and profit from it. Or in front of a historical building that once gave birth to freedom and now mocks it. My rosemary plant has done fairly well so far by the window, but it’s not enough, of course. Planted outside, it may die of exposure. Left indoors, it will die from being trapped in a small pot. Rumor is the National Guard is coming to this one. I carry in my change purse a lucky quarter, “lucky” because the New Hampshire state motto is engraved on it: Live free or die. I hope my roots will snarl up the workings of the machine.