We pull up the weeds, everything beneath it exposed. The cobweb of roots and stems snapping like electrical wires, dust spreading like smoke. Spiders, beetles, roaches, larvae scurry away, my skin crawling with disgust, wishing weeds were unplanned flowers instead of garden killers. After, the patio is a mess. Loss leaks from the littered remains–the frayed leaves, broken stalks, patches of unsettled ground. I count six snail shells overturned, one white shell filled with dirt, the others slightly trembling and I remember when my garden was empty. And how one weekend it rained and my jungle was born overnight. And gone again, in fifty minutes.