I love a good weed. It’s when I feel that I am most in my head, when I do my best thinking, when my imagination wanders up and down and sideways.
That’s the way it was this weekend when I knelt down to begin weeding the bed that’s wedged between a blue stone patio and a row of white pines growing in a bed of ivy behind a low stone wall. In truth, I began working on this bed weeks ago, when I cleaned it, weeded it, and planted the Gomphrena “Strawberry Fields” that I had started from seed.
And that’s where the work ended. Now all I see is the Gomphrena swallowed up by a new flush of weeds because I never had the chance or the time to place mulch. It’s uncanny how the driest stretch of my yard, heated by the surrounding stonework, is the perfect home for weeds.
As I pulled and yanked, my green world became black and white and I imagined myself in a 1940s film noir flick. In it, I’m in a chair, a beam of light aimed at me and throwing the far corners of the room into shadows. There’s a detective hovering above me, hair slicked back, hands on his waste so I can see his gun holstered under his jacket.




























