Almost overnight, waist-high grass and weeds, perennials hiding like panthers in the thick. Pitchfork. Rubber boots. Reconnaissance for beauty. Rip and tear the creeping speedwell. Thinking of nothing, hack at horsetail, yank out chickweed. Break bulbs apart; twist this root, split this mint. Gardening is an act of violence. Funeral pyre of unwanted weeds. Earthworms in pieces. Thistle and hostas tossed in the grass, roots obscenely exposed. Slopping around. And the mud sister amid color and mulch, setting stones for paths between the survivors. Fork coneflower into the wheelbarrow. Wheel them home, with various injuries—wilted leaves, broken stalks, missing petals. The basil, the bee balm, the sedum, the black-eyed susans, the dwarf sunflowers. They all take hold of the May sun.