By the last week of late fall, my small greenhouse space is full of plants from the garden, potted plants from the porch, ancient plants that I have kept alive for decades past.
Like I do in every season, I greet them in the morning before I feed the fish and the birds. They are all pets, companions, confidents.
Outside the windows, bamboo hides the neighborhood. Except for my daily greeting "good morning, plants!" i don't talk to them a lot, and i don't hear them if they do try to communicate with sound.
They are, however, quite articulate in body language. Neglected leaves complain and even shout sometimes when they need water. And so we have our own language.
Surrounded by so many living species that that only wait for the warm sun, I often think of our shared needs and vulnerability in the presence of winter that would destroy us if it could.
I also feel as dependent as they are upon our artificial season here in the. greenhouse and on our brief time and on our impending limits and impermanence here.
I am grateful for our mutual retreat, hiding in the face of inclemency and danger. I am grateful that we have each other so quietly and in such gentle simplicity.
This is Bill Felker with Poor Will's Almanack. I'll be back again next week with more notes on nature and the seasons. In the meantime, sit with your plants or just imagine sitting with your plants, for a few minutes. Be content and grateful.
