I tried to touch a blade of grass. My fingers passed through it. Or rather, it passed through me . I was the ghost. The plants were the anchors: solid, ancient, drunk on their own steady growth. My human dizziness was just a poor imitation of their stillness.
I knelt in the moss. The moss breathed back. grogue visão das plantas
The sun had not just set; it had melted . It dripped down through the canopy in thick, amber rivulets, staining the ferns the color of old honey. That was the first sign that my vision belonged to the —not the drunkenness of wine, but the dizzy intoxication of chlorophyll. I tried to touch a blade of grass
And for the first time, I saw clearly.