Black spots grew on the leaves, darkened some of light’s voices. The plant became itself in company with illness. It displayed itself in its way but with additions and marks.
Neither rain, sun nor earth took notice. Dew crept up from the ground. Bumblebees sniffed and licked. Animals moved past on special missions.
Stockboys smoked cigarettes and spat. Trucks were unloaded. Dumpsters filled and stank. Smells of dough and stale beer pushed the air. Sweet clover sang its white and yellow notes across knapweed and lace. Chinese lanterns snuck over the fence. Sweet peas climbed it. Bull thistle grew six feet high.
A human being walked past and called the names and touched the leaves, held her nose past dumpsters and air vents with bad breath. She climbed up through the fence hole to see dame’s rockets and poppies. The old man was watering his garden.
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