Have Pity On The Weeds
Every year about this time, I grapple with the dilemma of what to weed. It’s not that I want my garden to be overrun with volunteers, but over the years I’ve become more and more averse to killing living things. This includes plants, with which I’ve always had an affinity. I think I was a plant in a former life, and probably something weedy.
This year’s problem plant is a grove of daisy fleabane which seeded in on barren ground near where I had misguidedly let their mother bloom the year before. There they all are, her strong and healthy children, forming their sturdy basal rosettes with taproots to Eden. Part of me says, pull ’em up. Another part doesn’t feel like it — I tried pulling one up by the roots the other day and it wouldn’t budge. But the strongest part of me, the part that has the upper hand at the moment, is suffering moral pangs at the thought of all those soon to be dead plants in a pile next to my empty flower bed.








