Weeds

The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility. S ometimes in the spring, when I'm on my hands and knees among the azaleas, pulling out purslane and dandelion , I think how wonderful gardening would be if only it weren't for weeds. Most of the time I dislike weeding, especially when I see it as a battle. Given the natural guile of the enemy, I become pessimistic, thinking that the weeds will always be one step ahead of me, that I can never defeat them. I can create huge mounds of compost from the honeysuckle vine, chickweed, and pokeberry that I remove from my woodland garden beds and still hundreds of malignant survivors will have escaped my surveillance. When my frustration grows past endurance, my war escalates to chemical weapons. I don't spray herbicides very often, though, for I'm not proud of resorting to excessive force. Weeds, it seems, are truly like troubles: prodigious , vexing, and capable of bringing out the worst in people. But like troubles, they can also coax out the best. Sometimes, when I'm weeding, the simple action of plunging the fork into the earth, uprooting the plant, and shaking loose the soil that clings to its roots is very soothing. Plunge, pull, shake—repeated over and over, just like a mantra. On these occasions, my thoughts turn philosophical. Maybe the strong smell of the earth loosens memories from an earlier, less careworn time. Or maybe this contem-plative sensibility is a byproduct of repetitious action. In either case, when this mood takes over, I lose the notion that the weeds are my enemy, that their leaves and roots are acting malevolently. The weeds, I realize, are neither good nor bad; they simply exist. Gardens do not grow without weeds, and life does not unfold without misfortune. And then I think about the way my life has been touched by AIDS. I can still remember the first time I came across a description of an unusual immune disorder in a medical journal—long before the disease even had a name. Because of my training in pathology, I was curious about this mysterious new disease. I remember feeling a ghoulish interest in an illness that could cause such tremendous, irreparable damage. Even then, before any of us …