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The fall was a busy time for the garden, Maude was learning. Certain plants wanted to be trimmed, while others wished to be fed more, and others just wanted to be left alone. Walking down one of the carefully tended aisles of the greenhouse, she paused occasionally to snip away a weary, withered stem or leaf from a needy plant, or to tuck the fragrant soil more snuggly about their stalks. For each plant she stopped to take care of, she tried her best to recall the name, and what it was used for. “Uh…wood fern, for ouchies,” she mutters out loud, having had to taste this particular plant to identify it, but more easily picking out the next one, “cinn’mon fern, for old people!” She means for arthritis, of course, though she doesn’t use the word, mostly because she always stumbled around its pronunciation, and it made her feel stupid. Besides, old people were the ones who most often experienced it, right? Tipping a conch shell full of water onto its roots, knowing that the cinnamon fern liked damp soil, she goes to refill her natural tote with water and rests it back on the soil, before returning to the next plant in her line of identification. “Shoot,” despairs the filly when she moves to the next fern, and can’t remember what its called; staring at it for some time, she chews her lip in between her mumbled guesses, occasionally touching the plant, as if it will tell her if nudged often enough, “uh, princess fern? A king fern? No…” [ OOC: It's a royal fern! kiddo partyyyyyy ] |
Hold onto this lullaby, even when the music's gone.
