the plants speak

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The plants are talking to me.

“Oh Laurel,” they say, “We’re so glad you decided to sow us and let us grow, but when, oh when will you plant us outside?

We’re stuck in these small cages, the soil’s only inches deep, we need room to breathe and stretch our leaves wide.”

“Don’t worry,” I reply. “The time will come soon. See how when the sun falls the air becomes cold? Can you feel it on the window? You’ll suffer out there if I let you go too soon.”

It’s an excuse and they know it. They’ve grown impatient. Their roots are itchy and they grow taller every day.

“We can’t wait anymore!” They cry. “The sun is calling us!”

I bite my nails, I try to coax them, I say whatever soothing words I can think of.

They’ll have none of it. They whisper amongst themselves: “She doesn’t know how we grow. We aren’t like humans, delaying life until it’s convenient.”

I roll my eyes, but I know they’re right.

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