I forgot how to say “fruit” in the middle of the aisle where branches lean over to shake my hand. Fumbling through vowels made with facial expressions—implications even herbs cannot comprehend. The hemisphere turns left, sometimes right, always holding onto a thread. When we speak softly, we require evenings to ourselves, mulling through leaflets earmarked with rainwater. There is nothing in the way of the most generous stranger accepting a bouquet of turnips. But it’s the limes we’re concerned about. They are bouncing with laughter. Even when we’ve informed them about the salt.