The weeds are waist high in my vegetable garden. I can barely make out the greens and purples of my newly planted basil, so lost are they among the wild cacophony of flowering invaders: Native white daisies in full bloom, their yellow centers reflecting the bright yellow blossoms of the invasive dandelions; blue-eyed flax; spikey evening primrose; nastily prolific but handsome copper and yellow coreopsis; native blackberry runners running amok; soft yellow buttercups; and the occasional volunteer onion, its papery white flowers atop a tall, smooth green stalk. Scattered here and there like punctuation marks, gleaming orange nasturtiums that escaped from their border bed grow in the understory that is my forest of weeds.
All these and more, beautiful in their own right, threaten my vision of the orderly rows of green beans, cucumbers, tomatoes and squashes that I have not yet been able to plant.
The late rains have drenched my garden's soil, the sloppy, muddy ground effectively keeping me from the task of weeding the usually easily contained maverick weed population which has grown so lush and abundant this year.
Today I stand on the deck overlooking my vegetable garden, leather gloves pulled on tight, hoe in hand, face raised to the gray and lowering sky, daring it to rain one more drop.