Chamomile

With my thumb and forefinger, I pluck tiny white and yellow chamomile flowers. They are a perpetual gift: the more I pick the more return in their place. I toss them on a plate on my windowsill to dry and lift my fingers to enjoy the sweet aroma.

Later I go back to the raised bed tea garden with my macro-lens-outfitted camera and my tripod and, just as I suspected, there I find magic in those little buds.

 

Word wrangler. Photo taker. I'm here early most mornings with one of my photos and a few words about life and those thin places where faith intersects.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.