of leaves in their seasoned red and conservative green. of flowers that bloom and gather together in their plains and valleys and craters and rainbow-colored streets. of stalks that rise -long but less proud; silent taking careful steps to wake the roots gesturing floor-point picking up needles one by one. i do not disturb them in their funny and silly distortions as though artists in costumes and masks of teeth and cheeks and sweet-smelling saliva. i do not wake them from their prayerful stance. i was told one should talk to the plants even poke playfully their pots and the tips of their leaves. but i grow distant from that suggestion for every time i speak to them they close their ears; even eyes close and petals sleep again. my language may speak of love and care and admiration but they will hear none of it none of my words and pauses. so today i speak of wet earth it is what i smell anyway earth touching water in the early morning coarse skin bathing in rivers of love and care and admiration. it travels towards me and when i turn my mouth to it it enters me through my ears and through my mouth and through my tongue. and finally they set their stage and they let me see them grow.