I am an ungainly peasant, bent over, yanking out roots of life’s green impulse. Even as the weeds go limp they send out the freshest breath. I apologize to them for my human-centric approach. I may be impressed by morning glory’s sneaky charm, but climbing up tomato stems and smothering beans is not allowed.
Strawberries keep trespassing where peppers and eggplants grow. Sunchokes stomp into the potato bed. Dill sprouts everywhere. The humidity is thick as oatmeal but I am grateful for all of it. The harvest, heavier every day, reminds me how the weight of minutes lived also tips the scales toward the farther side.
I straighten up, making a little oooof noise as I do, and wave to the remaining weeds. “You, my friends, will live another day.”