had
an unfinished mural
in
a basement that hasn't been used in six years,
and
a Sunday School teacher
who
wrote a lesson each week
for
a class of only herself.
But
we thought to fix it
because
a plant is not an individual -
one
blade of grass
connects
to its kin -
as
you can see by
hacking
ivy to the ground
only
to watch it refulrish,
the
raspberry vines
clawing
up from the dirt
only
a few days later,
the
rose rooted deep
in
the cement.
Something
more lurks
beyond
berries,
beyond
leaves,
beyond
vines,
beyond
what what we think of as a plant.
But
a plant is not an individual;
it
would not refer to itself as I,
but
as we;
it
will not whither when bits die,
does
not bleed when leaves fall.
Yet
even when
the
hoe overturns the earth
and
the ivy have been tugged
and
the raspberry vines have been cut
and
one persistent root has been extracted
from
a its encasing of a chunk of cement,
all
I find are hidden garlic clovers,
growing
wild under the ivy.
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