The thinks in my brain? They float and flit and maybe end up on a blog page. Maybe they’ll end up in a book someday. Maybe they’ll simply disappear beneath the worm moon going nowhere at all.
My makeshift greenhouse. It doesn’t look like much yet, only a bright window in the garage. Impossibly small seeds sprinkled into soil, watered with a dribble, fussed over, talked to as though I’m “in charge of the last of the Truffula seeds.
And Truffula trees are what everyone needs.”