Karin Barbee
The herbs are out of control. We've been forced to abandon our jobs
and dedicate our time to creating menus that highlight mint and tarragon.
The tomatoes grew too quickly. We had not yet placed the wire cages around them.
Now it is too late. The vines have spread. The tomatoes are rotting in the dirt.
We have no choice but to stay with them day and night, wait for them to ripen,
lightly twist them from the vine before the bugs invade.
The sunflowers. Don't get me started. The sunflowers. They grow intimidating,
overbearing, staring out into neighboring yards. The children cower in their homes,
run from house to car, avert their eyes. This evening, we consult books, plan for fall.
There is only one way this ends: a spoon gouging at the sunflowers' eyes, small seeds
pouring to the ground. The excess squash and berries tossed into a pile.
We will do this early Sunday while the neighbors still sleep. They will wake and dress
for church. They will visit a diner for lunch. They will have no idea what we have done.