I know a man who likes to chew on sawdust, the resinous kind. His breath reminds me of mushrooms, in particular the false chanterelle with reddish gills that grows beneath pines, I cite this esoteric case as an example for anyone who thinks it odd that I feel a lively need to pull up weeds. As the name implies, there are too many: nettles (despite delicate lavender flowers) dandelions, hawkweed grown too high, its seed ballooning like lamps on Paris streets. Wild blackberry sneaks underground, hard to defeat. Bindweed tries to enter everywhere. Wind it like twine until you find its thick roots, then lean back. But I encourage: Joe-pye bone-set pearly-white rods of gold in five shapes, daisies that re-seed themselves, their plush self-fielding; purple vetch and asters (though I can do without flea-bane). It takes a book to account for them all but still
I will eliminate those not to my taste. It's pleasant to pull small easy things, unlike royal redwood, triumphantly castle- wide. I suppose it might have been early disposed of, when less than an inch high.