Enter the greenhouse.

I love it here. From the gritty soil
to the abundant moisture.

Yet my palms are sweaty,
my green thumb is sore.
Classical music is to growing,
as is a kid to a toy store.

For once, a life-size terrarium holds me,
instead of ants who see grass as the trees.

Constrained, but so free.

This world remains a prison, but it contains both you and me.