Overgroan

Such a poor gardener as myself could be classified as a human herbicide. I am amazed to discover, each May Day, just how much has survived my misrule. The bed of iris that I irrigate with road salt and prune with a power mower has come back every year since 1983, when a good gardener last owned this plot. The new metal roof is perfectly positioned to deliver killing avalanches of ice to the potentilla and barberry each winter, yet they thrive like some vegetable form of cockroach. I gave up on the round sandstone bed by the driveway, trimming it every few weeks with a Homelite weed-whacker. Where did all the snowdrops and daffodils come from? I thought I shoveled them out along with the near-immortal mint. If I can't exterminate something as delicate as a rosebush, how will I ever deal with virulent thickets of sumac and bamboo?