Oh, how I hate you, Garden.
You lure me with your promise of food and stress relief.
You speak to the blood of my farming ancestors
and stir up memories of abilities once used.
You fool me with picturesque images.
Of over-sized hats and flowered gloves
and simple salads made with love and sunlight.
The reality is much less romantic.
It is the presence of dirt that cannot be removed
and mosquito bites I cannot reach to scratch.
It is of aggressive and ever-present weeds.
They cannot be thwarted nor can they be tamed
and often are larger than the plants they accompany.
O, Garden, you are a menace.
After weeks of producing little, you develop overnight
with amounts that cannot be handled by one woman.
You grow with ferociousness that shows your true nature.
You do not want to feed, but overcome
and take back the earth from civilization.
Harvest comes quickly and needs constant vigilance.
Those with employment cannot manage
and require days of rest to be abandoned for labour.
I curse you, dear Garden, and all your fruits.
I loathe the carrots that will not be plucked easily
and the onions that grow 4 feet tall with no bulb.
I despise your zucchini the size of small dogs.
The spinach that flowers too quickly to be picked
and lettuce that overwhelms the bed.
One cannot eat this much salad!
I have grievously injured myself on a carrot
and my back aches from wrestling with beets.
There is nothing I love about you, Garden.
I loathe you with the hatred of a thousand suns
and expect I will do it again next season.