Smells like the furniture
We were visiting a friend who is responsible for a large garden. He had to check the greenhouses. Plural. In one, row upon row of seedlings, including many tomatoes. I cannot see tomato seedlings but that I have to brush my hand over the tips. My science brain knows that this helps to produce sturdy little plantlets. My reptile brain revels in the smell of bruised tomato leaves. Drinks it in. There was talk of how I have to have a greenhouse again. I churlishly rejected it. It isn’t going to happen, not any time soon. Back home, I pruned the potted lemon.
Read all of Jeremy's 100 word posts here.
And here's Hussein Wren:
What if cranes ...
What could it mean, if the cranes don’t fly home this year? What if these high mountain meadows never hear again the odd croaking of our beautiful, large, long-legged birds? What if they don’t stalk the reedy, peaceful shallows of the clattering river, spearing small fish with their beaks like lightning-quick warriors? Will the real warriors, those cruel, ugly men with grimacing faces, descend upon us instead of the gentle cranes? Will the people of the mountain be forced to take up defensive arms and embrace the black stain of violence? Through tears I search the cloudless skies for wings.
Read the rest of Hussein Wren's 100 word posts here.
They've written many touching, moving and inspiring posts. Please go read and comment. It'll be like handing them a cup of water as they run by. They need it. Believe me, that last mile can be the toughest.
And don't forget to visit Out of Context, who started this whole damn mess.