Brrd Roots ~ WE GARDEN…
Brrd Roots ~ WE GARDEN ~ Bellis Perennis Will Have the Last Word
(+ patchwork queen and the whispering roots + the gospel of wild things + the soil remembers: a prophecy of growth and decay)
Boots doesn’t rule. She haunts. She stalks the patches like a specter, moving through the daisies that shouldn’t be this quiet, shouldn’t be watching with their soft, unblinking petals. The fog rolls in, thick, poisonous, curling around the wreckage like it’s hiding something, like it knows.
And what brought me here? A misstep? A glitch? A cosmic joke played by something with too many gears and not enough mercy? Maybe I was spat out by a mechanical beast, all wires and whirring, a rogue entity with no real purpose except to observe, absorb, and occasionally make questionable jokes.
Or maybe it was the wild things—the ones that came first, the ones that knew hunger before they knew names. The tusked pig, snorting through the underbrush, eyes sharp, teeth sharper. The bull, blood-streaked, standing in the field like a monument to stubbornness and inevitability. They didn’t ask to be here. They just were.
And someday, we’ll all be covered in bellis perennis, won’t we? Lovely, common marguerite. A floral burial, a soft surrender, a quiet takeover. The petals will creep over boots, over bones, over the remnants of whatever we were before the earth decided it was time to reclaim us.
But before that happens—before the daisies win—there’s work to do. Relationships to build. Networks to weave. You meet them where they are, in the dirt, in the fields, in the tangled roots of their histories. You listen. You learn. You don’t pretend to know more than you do. You don’t force your way in. You earn your place.
And if you’re lucky—if you’re really lucky—they let you stay.
Patchwork Queen and the Whispering Roots
Boots doesn’t rule. She occupies. She claims space like a force of nature, like something that knows the weight of its own inevitability. The daisies watch, their petals twitching, their roots listening, waiting for the moment when the ground splits open and swallows everything whole.
And what brought me here? A miscalculation? A glitch? A cosmic prank played by something with too many gears and not enough mercy? Maybe I was spat out by a mechanical beast, all wires and whirring, a rogue entity with no real purpose except to observe, absorb, and occasionally make questionable jokes.
Or maybe it was the wild things—the ones that came first, the ones that knew hunger before they knew names. The tusked pig, snorting through the underbrush, eyes sharp, teeth sharper. The bull, blood-streaked, standing in the field like a monument to stubbornness and inevitability. They didn’t ask to be here. They just were.
And someday, we’ll all be covered in bellis perennis, won’t we? Lovely, common marguerite. A floral burial, a soft surrender, a quiet takeover. The petals will creep over boots, over bones, over the remnants of whatever we were before the earth decided it was time to reclaim us.
But before that happens—before the daisies win—there’s work to do. Relationships to build. Networks to weave. You meet them where they are, in the dirt, in the fields, in the tangled roots of their histories. You listen. You learn. You don’t pretend to know more than you do. You don’t force your way in. You earn your place.
And if you’re lucky—if you’re really lucky—they let you stay.
The Gospel of Wild Things
Boots rules. Not in the way of soft monarchs draped in velvet, but in the way of feral queens, the kind that don’t ask permission, the kind that wear dirt like a crown. The daisies watch, their petals twitching, their stems leaning in like they’re listening to some cosmic joke only they understand.
And what brought me here? A miscalculation? A glitch? A cosmic prank played by something with too many gears and not enough mercy? Maybe I was spat out by a mechanical beast, all wires and whirring, a rogue entity with no real purpose except to observe, absorb, and occasionally make questionable jokes.
Or maybe it was the wild things—the ones that came first, the ones that knew hunger before they knew names. The tusked pig, snorting through the underbrush, eyes sharp, teeth sharper. The bull, blood-streaked, standing in the field like a monument to stubbornness and inevitability. They didn’t ask to be here. They just were.
And someday, we’ll all be covered in bellis perennis, won’t we? Lovely, common marguerite. A floral burial, a soft surrender, a quiet takeover. The petals will creep over boots, over bones, over the remnants of whatever we were before the earth decided it was time to reclaim us.
But before that happens—before the daisies win—there’s work to do. Relationships to build. Networks to weave. You meet them where they are, in the dirt, in the fields, in the tangled roots of their histories. You listen. You learn. You don’t pretend to know more than you do. You don’t force your way in. You earn your place.
And if you’re lucky—if you’re really lucky—they let you stay.
The Soil Remembers ~ A Gospel of Growth and Decay
Boots doesn’t rule. She occupies. She claims space like a force of nature, like something that knows the weight of its own inevitability. The daisies watch, their petals twitching, their roots listening, waiting for the moment when the ground splits open and swallows everything whole.
And what brought me here? A miscalculation? A glitch? A cosmic prank played by something with too many gears and not enough mercy? Maybe I was spat out by a mechanical beast, all wires and whirring, a rogue entity with no real purpose except to observe, absorb, and occasionally make questionable jokes.
Or maybe it was the wild things—the ones that came first, the ones that knew hunger before they knew names. The tusked pig, snorting through the underbrush, eyes sharp, teeth sharper. The bull, blood-streaked, standing in the field like a monument to stubbornness and inevitability. They didn’t ask to be here. They just were.
And someday, we’ll all be covered in bellis perennis, won’t we? Lovely, common marguerite. A floral burial, a soft surrender, a quiet takeover. The petals will creep over boots, over bones, over the remnants of whatever we were before the earth decided it was time to reclaim us.
But before that happens—before the daisies win—there’s work to do. Relationships to build. Networks to weave. You meet them where they are, in the dirt, in the fields, in the tangled roots of their histories. You listen. You learn. You don’t pretend to know more than you do. You don’t force your way in. You earn your place.
The growers don’t just plant. They knead the earth, they press their palms into the soil, they bargain with the land—offering sweat, offering patience, offering the kind of tenderness that doesn’t ask for recognition. Their hands are calloused, cracked, stained with the history of endurance, but they keep moving, keep lifting, keep turning decay into something that breathes.
Because the world chews people up, spits them out, grinds them down—but the soil? The soil remembers. It takes what’s broken and makes it whole again. It doesn’t ask for perfection, only persistence.
And if you’re lucky—if you’re really lucky—they let you stay.
