Plants are prisoners, yet they extend, twist, creep their way in
I love plants. Maybe even more than animals, more than cats, which I adore. I like everything about plants, but I always feel as though I know nothing. I buy them at the nursery, I distribute them on balconies and in every room, I plant them in the ground in the garden. I learn their names, including the scientific ones, and I write down in a notebook how much to water them, when to give them hormones, whether they need a lot of sun or a little.
And not only that: I study the types of soil, the time for pruning and the techniques. I worry about late freezes as if they were earthquakes or tidal waves.
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