Broccoli vanishing

Gardens are a nice problem to have. Our plants can be unruly, but they are as clever as poems. I was able to shape the creeping rangoon like a shed. It consumed our clothesline - and it’s fine. It went all the way to the roof. When in bloom, its white-and-pink flowers smell wonderful at night. They smell like those expensive, garden-inspired Hermes perfumes. The shade the vines offer is thick - its leaves only lets in little light, dappled patterns in the afternoon, great with coffee and cigarettes. My wife and I sit under the leaves, marveling at the vines. When it rains the drops pass through layers and layers of leaves, and like tiny umbrellas they turn the drops into harmless needles. The sound of this tickles the ears. When people talk under the leaves felt like they were listening. If it had a mouth it could have been humming an indistinct song. Almost no one believed me when I said I subscribe to the idea that plants are sentient beings (I first read about this in The New Yorker): they may not be able to talk or whimper, but they can feel. I left an ube and a singkamas on the garden, only to see their flagella-like roots on cement branching out, looking for damp surfaces. Their tendrils, too, searched for light, and its lengths spanned as taller as I am. This afternoon I uprooted a malunggay tree that was felled by last week’s habagat. This was the second malunggay tree that was uprooted - the first was a lot smaller and more manageable. I feel sorry for the insects who called it home, but it was blocking our front door. This one had a thicker trunk, so I couldn’t manage to pull it off of the soil without snapping its branches by hand, one by one. There was something nice about playing tug of war with the earth. It was… oddly satisfying. I tossed the branches the empty lot next door, hurling them like javelins.