Mortimer done called me a feckin’ flower sucker, so I punched him so hard them bones above his eye came down over the socket like an avalanche over a cave mouth. Ain’t never winked the same since. All on account of feckin’ idiots thinking a reluctance to sip cadaver juices is a sign of softness. Sometimes, there ain’t no bodies to sip. So you listen.
There’s evening primrose. They grow red ‘round here. Surprisingly delicate petals. Good moisture.
There’s poverty grass. Grows on practically nothing. Tastes like nothing. Gotta work hard to get a proper thimble full. There’s also onion grass which tastes like well, feckin’ onions.
There’s incense bush. Fremen used it to make incense. They knew to cultivate hardy, deep-rooted plants like this and sand-verbenna and saguaro and burrowbush.
I also hear tell that some of these plants species came about from some planetologist or another treading in the creator’s domain.