Tired August

Mint is growing out of its bounds and into the fescue. I mow some of it as I follow the defined line of grass, and the scent of fresh, wet spearmint lifts and spreads. The pepper plants are small, but the peppers are long. The tomato plants are spindly, yielding nothing of worth.

The red trumpet honeysuckle vine is thinned out, and there are no trumpets. Ferns that once were on the forest floor of my family land now grow under my stand of old trees and sway in a warm August breeze. The trees are dropping yellow leaves that mix with mulch and keep the flowerbeds from looking neat. Birches have a neverending supply of twigs that they give up willingly. I’ve already said it — I’ll never plant another birch tree. I’m tired of tripping over their droppings and picking them up for disposal in brown paper bags they don’t fit well in.

The rose bush has no leaves. Nothing but thin green arms sticking out like those of aliens. I think the squirrels have eaten the leaves. They do this in August. First they eat the Christmas cactus my mother-in-law gave me years ago to care for. I curse them and bring the plant in sooner than I want. I can’t stop their careless destruction.

The abelia is wild and flowery, forsythias are crazily growing, and a blue wildflower is running rampant through the flowerbed. Nandinas and monkey grass are lush.

The fountain in the pond bubbles anxiously and sends out waves that move as fast as time.

And weeds grow where grass fades.

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