I don’t have a green thumb. Moreover, my plants know it: they lie down and die right in front of my eyes. I once had a potted palm that thrived on humidity. I placed it in the bathroom and gave it plenty of light. When I showered, it peered down at my naked body like a voyeur. I became self-conscious, and I finally gave it away.
My dental hygienist said that plants enjoy poetry and need to be read to regularly. So, I flossed their stems and began reciting verse. My gesneriads were particularly fond of Keats, while my fittonia was a devotee of Longfellow, but nothing happened. They pegged me as the plant deviant I was.