I describe my woes to my friend, the pro, genius
of a plot greater and finer than my own big old garden
where everything grows into everything else. Definition,
she tells me. That’s what I need. I was defined
by a cold place, a time when summer was brief and
brilliant. By a house of enough in a neighbourhood
of just- and not-enough. Pink petunias and orange marigold,
a red rose or two. But here, too much. Too much moneywort
