In spring I pushed sweet peas into the damp earth and fed them with bright adjectives. I layered a stem of nouns to root among the mints, dotting an odd gerund below the lavender. Rain spattered them with pronouns. Squirrels buried verbs. There were some adverbs from last year's cuttings, but magpies stole them, stealthily.
Now I dig for stories, as the dog sniffs out windfalls. Our garden feeds us, always.