I came across five or six of these little old soup cans situated on a table on our back porch the other day and I've found myself mindlessly visiting, touching, and photographing them ever since. The plants are small and soft, the cans tall and slim, but rusted and much older.
There's something about them that I like--maybe it's their size, but there's something resilient about them and the way they are sprouting up even though we sometimes over-water them and then leave them out all day in the blazing Virginia heat.
Rosemary, parsley, basil, oregano, some peppers, and thyme.
Plants simply growing where they are planted is not nearly a work of magic, I know, but it's little tiny things like this that make me stop and feel thankful to be part of this world. To feel the sun beat down on me, to walk barefoot in the grass. To appreciate the texture and color of an old can. To find hope in tiny roots and warm, wet soil--little pots of potential.