Listen, an experienced gardener warned,
you want to watch the wisteria.

It gets away from you, its dime-sized seeds
burrowing into the ground, it’ll grow
and grow and grow into a constrictor,
a green strangler. I’m not kidding.

But, I said, I like the pretty clusters
that drape like lavender waterfalls
before the leaves burst out.

Yeah, he said. Just wait.

Same with the morning glories
that took over the fence with
their glorious purple blossoms,
open-throated to the sun.

And mint. Everyone warned me
about mint. Subterranean invader,
they said. It’ll pop up everywhere
like whack-a-mole. You won’t be able
to get rid of it.

You want to leave a legacy after you die?
Plant mint.

But spearmint, I said. For tea.
And the smell.

Yeah, they said. Just wait.

Today I stretch tall to clip
the constrictor’s searching arms
roaming the fence, get it away
from the neighbor’s house as it
reaches for me, snagging some
tenacious morning glory with it.

Crouching, I yank out a little mint
by the roots, plucking some of its
wrinkly leaves for tea later,
consider transplanting lemon thyme
where I have de-minted—

“my darling lemon thyme,” I hum—

growing so happily under the maple
in the front yard. Will it do well here
in so much unrelenting sun?

You never know till you try, I think,
the perennial motto of gardeners,
whose ranks I have now joined
as an apprentice, bringing my
minty-thyme hands to my nose,
closing my eyes, and—yes!—
inhaling deeply.