A mid-summer evening. The sun stretches long and low on the 8:30pm horizon. Heat from the day still lingers but soon a warm breeze starts to flow through the forest cove, bringing moments of tempered stillness. There is still work to be done. Vines grow in skips and hops every day, jumping over trellis branches and raised bed walls. Greens shoot boldly into the sky, begging to be torn out for another go at life. Steady hands have started to shake over the years, but they still know where to pull, pluck and pinch. Pick. Pick. Take note, the Red Fingerlings grow taller, faster and with less complaining than the slow, but robust Yukon Golds. Although the pale yellow roots would never tell you to your face. You'd just have to dig them up one day to find that the plant was a good liar. Lying only because it needed slightly more sunlight and probably less water, but you can't help that on a wet year.
Plants have feelings too.
The young rhubarb, in it's faded blue plastic pot, likes more water than you would ever think it needs. 'Spose it could be that big root (needing more water and attention than it's plant above ground) that was once a part of the plant in your mother's garden. You give it whatever it wants because that rhubarb makes you think of your lovely and loving mother, who hates rhubarb.
Plants have feelings too.
The yellow Crookneck Squash is an over-achiever. There. I said it.
Plants have feelings too.