T here is nothing quite like a trip to the plant nursery to remind you that you’re living in a desert. I am driven to one or another each spring, wild with hope. Once inside, I find myself touching leaves and wandering from aisle to aisle, staggered by the tumbling, confident growth of it all. The air inside the greenhouse is heavy, thick with the moisture that’s already evaporating off of the floors, from underneath pots, and this is what settles inside me—the thought of all of the water spilled out to make this viral beauty possible. It seems like an offensive waste of a desert-dweller’s most vital resource, to pour it out in the unforgiving heat of the real world to prop-up a…