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041Insects who fly up my nose when I stir the compost.

Bunnies who nibble my asters. But even worse, bunnies who pass away and I must bury them.

A lilac, admired in Spring, brown with powdery mildew by the end of Summer.

Speedwell pruned, refusing to bloom.

010Tennis balls which have been thrown from my neighbor’s yard, lodged in my evergreens or mistaken for small pumpkins. Tennis balls chewed by the neighbor’s dog found in the most unimaginable places in my garden. I have therefore made a game of throwing the tennis balls back to their yard and getting as many as possible to land on the garage roof.


Cigarette butts.

The absence of Monarchs while milkweed is fresh in bloom and witnessing this endangered butterfly visibly grow more elusive before my eyes year after year.

001The pangs of guilt I feel composting things I know I could eat but do not want to eat, such as the thickest stems of chard.

Bees in my hair.

Building a bee house, and finding wasps have taken up residence.

Winter, although when Winter first arrives she is a welcome guest, providing amusing respite from Summer’s frenzy. But Winter always stays too long, becoming a guest one wishes to expel but cannot do so without tactless words, and so one endures her presence.

Piles of fur.

Power lines in photographs.077