I am an avid gardener. Which, during summer along the Gulf Coast, is to say that I am a tired and defeated weeder.
I have been thoroughly and roundly defeated by the shy plant and crabgrass.
They mock me in the slanted light of morning, knowing that they will thrive in the heat of day while I stare, helpless, from my air conditioned barracks.
When I do venture out in the not-cool-but-no-longer-searingly-hot evenings to wrestle what I can out of the soil, I can hear the survivors whisper,
"Do not consider yourself a victor for those of us you have taken. Each of the fallen will be replaced with three new invaders."
They're right; their seeds outnumber me a million to one and they know I won't use the only WMDs at my disposal because broad-spectrum herbicides are bad for all manner of life (including dogs and daughters and the frogs that sing to me from my porch).
And so I struggle to hold my ground while the weeds know that the war will go on for eons and my little patch of resistance will someday be theirs again.
I would delve deeper into the drama, but I have to go out and pull weeds.
I leave you with this piece of wisdom from another Floridian, whose writing makes me believe that he has felt my weedy woes:
"Crabgrass can grow on bowling balls in airless rooms, and there is no known way to kill it that does not involve nuclear weapons."