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.