My plants speak to me, softly yet urgently.
"Judy," they whisper as I walk by.
"Yes," I say.
But they do not seek my words. My words are useless to them, to their survival, to their happiness. So I say nothing more.
Instead I feel their need. Their thirst. Their drowning. From sunlight. From water.
From neglect and from decay.
I stand silent with them and they completely fill me with their desire until I feel their thirst, their drowning, their neglect, their decay.
Where do they end and I begin?
I caress their leaves - for just a moment - before mercilessly tearing away at any sign of death. I fill them with water or empty their vessels, dry.
I turn them toward the light or shield them from its burning.
I leave them, their rotted leaves staining my hands.
"Judy," they whisper as I walk by.
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