Our backyard is the forest primeval, sans the murmuring pines and the hemlock. Earlier in the day, it was actually worse than these pictures. These pictures were maybe an hour into destruction.

By dinner time, we had all but tried napalm and agent orange to get some jungle control. Beyond weeding and weed-whacking (our side yard was literally about tit-high with weeds and barely passable), M. sprayed poison into our patio cracks, while I succeeded in re-planting some herbs and veggies from the local plant shop and cleared around all our trees and fertilized the roots of the fruit. The apple tree is sprouting green on top and the lemons haven’t stopped coming. Now they’ll feast and become superfruit.

I’m embarrassed to say while whacking weeds I discovered four ornamental plants and a rather large decorative rock buried under thriving greenery of the weed sort.

Someday I expect one of two possibilities. Either I make a kick-ass salad from the tomatoes, peppers and lettuce M. wanted us to plant, because herbs weren’t sufficiently tangible after dining on freshly made pesto. Or, I clear away a forgotten experiment of green dead things. It’s about 50-50 given my unnatural knack to be unable to nurture life. I’m taking the happiness of weeds on our land as a sign that things could grow.

By the weed count alone I threw rosemary and chamomile into the herb mix. Maybe if all else dies, these hardy little buggers will make it.

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