the field behind the house
is white with wild morning glory,
a false friend better known as bindweed.
i’ve seen it sneak up the slender stalks
of cosmos and twine tendrils around
the thorny arms of unsuspecting roses,
sprout fearless shoots among the zoysia,
tie milkweed and mulberry together in a tangled mass of green —
and then it blooms, and for the sake of such beauty so briefly beheld
i don’t seem to mind the stranglehold of vines beneath the ephemeral blossoms.
i rip it out when i can—
when i catch it in time
and recognize it
for what it is —
but never get to the roots;
they say only glyphosate
can kill those completely.