“No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees,
sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air,
dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,
our animal passion rooted in the city.”

—Adrienne Rich, The Dream of a Common Language, 1978

For the gardener's pleasure, like the writer's, comes from digging into those dark places, digging out what might choke or smother, digging deep in preparation for seed. (p. 73)