Presiding over Les Pierres’ tiny yet overabundant herb garden in front of the cottage often feels like being enthusiastically engaged in an ongoing skirmish with the perfluous possibilities nature provides, always slightly bending and shaping its rules to cram in even more fragrant enchantments, supposedly and predominantly for the bees, an aptitude attitude I attained by being truly touched by a triumph for what it brings to others, as an acceptable, less selfish form of greed.
“More plants”, Ivory often sighs whenever I return from any local market, almost always exceptionally well nourished in the cupidity department. “Not for me”, I correct. “For the bees. Can’t you tell they’re starving?”