As a fellow Southerner, I get this. Around this time of year, my garden becomes voracious — consuming the mountainous rains, growing taller, wider, deeper, fuller, taking over spaces meant for fences, lawn chairs, patios, solar lamps, and sidewalks. The garden I tended so gently and encouragingly in March, as one would a helpless infant, is now a gangly teenager, growing inches during the night to tower over me in a menacing way. And, all the while, the weeds run wild like rabid coyotes, cackling at my efforts to wrangle them. I shrink back in apprehension, in awe of the monster I helped create, waiting in anticipation for the cooler autumn breezes to return discipline to my nursery.

And, once again, in March, I will tend my emerging sprouts, watering and feeding, supporting and strengthening, deep in my amnesia of the summers gone past.

Ah, yes, Guérin, I completely appreciate this piece and feel honored to publish it in Weeds & Wildflowers.

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I was always a writer but lived in a bookkeeper’s body before I found Medium and broke free — well, almost. Working to work less and write more.

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