Beyond our seed-littered pond a small forest of bamboo grows wild.
Hear the wind-rustling like shaken paper? Bamboo.
Shabby and peeling but erect with greeny health? Bamboo.
“The zombie of tree-life? Bamboo”—La Rochefoucauld.
Not to require beauty for survival? Bamboo.
Not to require syntax for survival? Bamboo.
Not to require your permission for survival? Bamboo.
To be wild bamboo is to march in all directions simultaneously.
Like the expanding universe of legend.
Like grace marching into our lives, unbidden.
Sometimes recognized, more often hidden.