Listen... in my tattered notebook, I draw them for the village children. Monocot stems have scattered bundles, like stars in a summer sky. Dicot stems arrange them in a ring, neat as our fields before the rains.
My own red gram plant, a dicot, I would split its stem and show them that perfect ring. But when the rice, a monocot, falls in the wind, its scattered strength reminds me of my own spine—no single ring to hold it, just bundles giving way.
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