The flowerbed will never be the same, no matter how many weeds I kill. The buttercups already forced
their way through the mulch I laid and I don’t know how to leave well enough alone.
I dumped bleach on the dandelions behind the deck, petals melting into the grass, anemic yellow; I’ve
done this before. It’s still a weed if it’s wanted, killing off the other flowers all the same.
They’ve never granted my wishes anyway.