Bare Spots

My wife wanted a new house. I had always liked the older ones in mature neighborhoods. Dappled light from the tree canopy seemed to lift my spirits. The musty smells and creaky boards are like stories waiting to be told.

So we bought the new, raw construction. The bare red clay disturbed me. I needed the austerity to be covered like you need to put on clothes when there’s a chill. I asked her to plant. She was always good at it; a green thumb if you will. She planted ivy of different kinds.

Now it’s everywhere. It’s climbing the trees and the house. Once there were islands of ivy. . Now they reach for each other smothering other growth.

So I worry a little. I’ve tried to pull it up but it resists mightily and is all bound together. The job is too big and will never end. I’m not at all sure I want to eliminate it or I’d spray with chemicals. That would feel too much like botanic murder though.

There’s a beauty in its running like when you spill grape juice on white Formica. You know you’ve got to clean it up but the spreading color mesmerizes you.