Mid May toiling in the hot sun of the spring garden, ground parched, rain elusive.
Not the beginning, not yet the end.
In the middle.
The garden, my world.
Spring stirs the army
Careful placing of the foot, balanced on the edge of rocks scattered in strategic spots, perching like an acrobat, easing between the perennials fresh green spikes, sinking down towards the soil, seeking the middle ground.
Plucking weeds through gloved fingers slippery with green sap, plunging into crevices, determination biting the tongue.
Bracing muscles, pulling, stretching, pulling, overextending the arms, sudden release, falling back into the plants, legs up in the air, arms thrown wide, a sickening green crunch, another victim. Stand up, look around, no witness’s, move on.
Act nonchalant, weeds one, gardener zero.
No middle ground, no tolerance for the cunning green shoots attempting to nudge aside all others and rule the garden. An army of stems marching, upwards, across, drifting, tunneling, determined.
To every weed there is a season.
A time, a wave of overly enthusiastically seeding its progeny, prolonging lifespan, ensuring future generations.
Fighting the rampage until the tide turns, their moment is over, time to declare victory.
Until the next morning, when a new soldier shows up.
Bug, insect, weed, it’s a ongoing battle.
You can tell the time of the year in the garden, by which weed is attempting a hostile takeover, which bug chomps on tender leaves overnight.
And there we are standing our ground, two steps forward, one step backwards brings us to the middle once again.
In the garden, in the middle of the season.
Jen @ The Light Laughed
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