Even just a single tendril of green flesh rupturing concrete begins to split open our understanding of plants as sessile, squishable, inert. A soft thing without eyes or a mouth that applies sustained pressure to our hard boundaries, the only thing between us and the dirt, and it wins the fight? That’s unsettling to a sense of order bent on the supremacy of human ingenuity. The possibility that we are not in charge flicks through the mind. Power is a matter of perspective.
