The botanist never loved you

At the botanical gardens, under the creamy lotuses, pink roses and aromatic blue bells lies a carefully detailed description of each prized flower’s specific aesthetic and practical contributions to our natural world. Plus, their name, in Latin.

Underneath the faded green spruce trees, that pop up every now and again, awkwardly mingled with short patches of vibrant reds and violets, reads a sign that says simply this: “Required Plant.”

What it means, I don’t know, but I think if there ever was a time to consider a career in plant therapy, it would be now.