[Note: Our hostesses pronounce their names differently, hence the slogan is adapted in their two neighborhoods to preserve the rhyme. The first pronounces the "a" as in "father", and "Yarrow to the morrow" implies endurance. The second, afflicted with a Philadelphia A, pronounces the "as" as in "lack," and "Yarrow to the marrow" implies species pride.]

I

You must respect the sincerity of the declaration and the courage of it, but I can't admire a fanatic. It's a great wrong, telling all the little seeds to sprout up whenever, wherever, no matter what. Criminal, I call that. You see them poking up in the gaps in concrete, in the middle of the worst trodden over paths, at the edge of the ocean where the wind roots them up and casts them into the sea, and always the yarrow-marrowed cheering them on from well back in a sheltered, fresh-watered spot. Very canny of them. Yarrow communities will never grow unless they learn to wait. Nine tenths of surviving is knowing enough to stay a seed, dig in, hold on, and keep our place. The species would disappear if it were up to those noble sprout-up-and-die ones. A truer service to wait as my grandparents did, and sprout in the fullness of time. We've got quite a family now, because of it.

Here you find what our great poet wished for his sprout, "a house where all's accustomed, ceremonious." (William Butler Yarrow, you understand, not the human who stole his work). You see the fine lace of the leaves against the sky and delicate multiplicity of our flowers that make the phloem chill with pride. These are the clusters where families are rich and stable. My mother was the finest daughter of a group like that, tall and beautiful and educated.

In those days this lupin you see overshadowed us, and she was the one who could break through into the light and see all the distant clusters around the hillside. She used to tell us of them and of the light. That was too high-minded for us seedlings, of course. What we liked were the battles against the invasives and the great rainfalls and the droughts. Our education was paramount to her. She taught us even human history. Did you know yarrow stopped the loss of blood from wounded Ahkaians in the Trojan War? The Iliad is a great favorite of mine.

[At this point our second hostess began to laugh so loudly that we we heard it all the way from her her home far down a steep slope. Our first hostess groaned and fell silent.]

II

Trojan War! Gimme a break. She wouldn't know a Trojan if it fell on her out of a dog. She's right about the yarrow-to-the-marrow plants, I guess. They come when it rains and leave when it dries up. Most of them. But they can't help it, they're used to nice rich dirt, lots of water. Out here on the fringe there isn't as much to grow in, so you've got to do what you can. Species isn't for play. You see the plantain leaf right on top of me, how could you miss it? They've got the taproots for getting down to the water, and I've got those connecting roots for holding the pieces of dirt. Coexistence, long as you watch your back.

Species, though, yeah. We've got these shallow connecting roots. A yarrow's part of a family. Light over there, shade over here, fog dripping off something somplace else, we pass it around. And we can shift around. The plantain, a little wind or a mudslide and its root is naked, it dies, but yarrow moves around a little and we're OK. Same thing if a vole takes a bite. I mean, if it's your time it's you're time, but we can get through a lot. I borrow a sunbeam off of this cousin and a drop from that cousin, and when it's hot the plantain gives me shade. Even when it's not hot, actually, which is the thing about plantains.

Plantains you can deal with, if you know how to handle them. They're not too sharp. They'll dig their root right down through yours if they think it will lead them to water, which OK it helps them shade you, but they'll drink it all up and then you've both got nothing. I watch my runners every minute. The plantains and the sow thistle come around a new sprout, all they want is the dirt broken and then their roots start in. I don't want my sprouts ending up like I did. If it wasn't for the plantain, I'd be taller than she is. Taller than her and her tall and beautiful mother.

But I don't let it get to me. I keep my leaves nice and set out in a circle. Not like sea thrifts. Nice plants, you know, but come on. They start out, nice tidy leaves in a circle, nice flower straight up. Couple of summers go by and they're a mess. Leaves jumbled all over and flowers sticking out anyplace. You never catch a yarrow looking like that. Our lace is our pride. No matter how bad it gets, we don't die without the lace.