My mother planted pachysandra outside the side door of our house in Louisville. There are two varieties I’ve found available, pachysandra procumbens, native to the Alleghanies — the kind you want to plant — and pachysandra terminalis, which is a lovely plant but which can be invasive if it escapes your beds.

Ours was in a straight bed, one that followed the foundation of our house, and the pachysandra was the first thing that actually grew there for longer than ten minutes. The window to the coal cellar lived smack in the middle of that wall, so the amount of accumulated charcoal was tremendous. (I guess this belies the black earth theory of my previous post!)

I used to love the feathery leaves, dancing to who-knows-what tune as I’d skip out the door to school, or a friend’s house, or up to The Loop for a carton of milk for supper. There were some decorative rocks in the bed with the plants, and occasionally we’d rearrange them like furniture for a different look.

Rabbits nested in our pachysandra after I left home. I got the most exquisite letter from my father  during my freshman year in college detailing the young rabbit’s initial forays into the world outside those leaves. Twitching noses and tentative hops disturbed the foliage, then suddenly, there they were, shooting across the sparse grass under the dogwood where anyone could see them.

It’s a funny thing when your prosaic, way-more-intelligent-than-most father gets all poetic on you. I wasn’t sure where that letter came from, but he followed this with more romanticized musings, all based on things he noticed in the natural world. Animals, plants, weather, stars all equally informed his writing.

Life’s pretty darn short — Go out and plant something — and let the poetic bloom.