September 16, 2025

the invasives

All morning, I’ve been hacking away at the edge of the lawn. Weeks ago,
a visitor told me what was growing there would take over, eventually.
I had mistaken it for some late-season berry—inedible perhaps—but still,
a sprightly ornamental among a drone of greens. Now, I am seeing things
more clearly for what they are. The clippers, steady in my gloved hands.
The pile of shorn branches growing by the minute. But this is, as they say,
the tip of the iceberg, and the caffeinated rush of pruning follows me
to the desk, the closet, a particular kitchen drawer, that place in my body
I’ve stubbornly refused to touch, believing the exposure would topple me.
Absent the invasives, a forest begins to announce itself. Ferns erupt in chorus.
Whatever I’ve worked so hard to protect jostles forward, insisting to be heard.