Roots are funny things.
But I say that all plants grow best, in whatever type of soil they happen to be planted in at that time. Because that’s the thing about plants; they aren’t the gardener. If they don’t grow where they are their only other choice is rather dire.
After tearful goodbyes, and I am not afraid to claim a tear, I drove off into the sunset. Then I drove into another sunset. Then I drove into yet another sunset and eventually ran out of room to drive. Then I stopped and unloaded the truck.
A long time ago I took seed in land, was transplanted to another, and eventually began to grow like that pesky weed that comes up in the crack of a sidewalk.
I loved being a weed in the Philly sidewalk.
I must have sprouted seed because the wind picked me up and blew me to another land where there are no weeds.
But here there are flowers.
Palm trees and sun.
It does not rain but gardeners abound. No more rabble but rather manicured gardens.
I have landed and now I can choose to grow.