Some odd bushes ended up in our yard after the landscapers did their work. They were foreign to me: scrawny, appearing noncommittal as they swayed with the wind. They held dark bulbs at the end, so dark that I couldn’t tell if they were alive or dead. As I began watering, I sensed my impatience. I felt unimpressed, holding to my preference for peonies, dahlias, roses, and other more theatrical plants.

What was the point, I wondered, to the time and energy spent caring for such little things? What were they? And, whatever they were, why wouldn’t they hurry up and be it?