Thin vines stretch across the honeycomb of air climbing the chicken wire of the garden fence with sticky new fingers in a spiderweb of green. In one gap, where – finding nothing to hold on to – the plant clearly doubted, it encountered only another of its own arms and the two wound round each other and spiraled momentarily toward the sky before pushing away, leaving a perfect coil in the middle of nothing. Despite this near miss, this almost fall, the vine keeps reaching out from its most recent anchor, groping blindly in the mystery of time and space, trusting that eventually it will reach something, if only itself.   I admire the pea plant. It must take so much hope to wake…