I looked upon the land that I would call my own; a small piece of earth, neglected and over grown. Yet, this portion of soil would be mine. Mine to tend to, mine to break sweat over, mine to grow, grow whatever I desired. With bent back, bent will, and bent hand shovel, I, the gardener, fiercely fought back at the green girth of weeds. On this gray spring day, the gardener had confidence in conquering nature.

For three years, colonies of insects, grubs, snails and spiders lived among tangled growth – a country of many distinct virtues. In the valley of Longgrass, many small aphids and insects established their homes in the long green staffs of those mighty plants. They lived content, flying to and fro and resting at home with their families after a long day of pestering. Down, down below, interwoven with the roots, grubs tend to their duties, enjoying their job of enriching the soil. And up past the roots, up on the surface, marched ants, and trotted assorted insects seeing to their own trade. All of the natives of these villages seemed good-natured, and I admit my reluctance to destroying their cities. But, I swore an oath to use the green thumb that I had to form a great vegetable garden. Snatching and pulling, and snatching and pulling, grabbing and gutting, and shaking and tossing, muscles and sweat met mud and impossible wild plants. Nevertheless, my dream spurred the gardener onward, until I came to Deadtree.

Towering in the back, a withered gray bush, built from bones, looked mournfully at the gardener. Dehydration and disease had been its death. And it stood as a meeting place for all sorts of questionable creatures. Spiders – like the agents of death – scurried as I approached their coliseum. Under the dead shrub there were scattered terrifically broken and decayed snail shells. For entertainment, those spiders betted and watched the forced battle of snail against snail. They watched them fight – the frothing snails, and afterwards, the same spiders saw other lowly bugs and centipedes feast on snail flesh. With disgust, I tore up all the wickedness and strewed those carnivores! But, then I saw the crowned weed of them all, Gringo.

Not even the spiders, the most cunning of creatures, went near the prickly beast. It was the worshiped god of the garden that all the inhabitance revered. Mint and grass surrounded its every prickling branches but no plant dare to grow too close. With it's wicked spilt spiked tongue it growled to me Foolish bleeding thumb! Poison throbs in my veins, and you think you can destroy me? I will live forever more, and you think you can destroy me? I will reincarnate, I will rise up Armies of my worshipers, and I will destroy you! You cannot destroy me. Gripping my faithful old hand shovel and gritting my teeth, I, the gardener, rebuked the plant and challenged him to the battle. For ages, it seemed the fight of hand and root continued—a battle of sweat, and dirt, and scratches, and pierced hands. With a final yank, the greatest of the weeds submitted to my pained limbs. "And he will send his angles, and they will weed out of his kingdom everything that causes sin and all who do evil. They will throw them into the fiery furnace, where they will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. He who has ears let him hear." Victory.

And now, I looked upon the land that I called my own; a piece of earth that I had subjugated to my will. And now, this soil was mine, I bled, I sweated, I fought for it. On the tossed fresh ground, cleared of the unwanted, I laid down the plow, the bent hand shovel, and the old leather gloves and sighed. From that sigh came relief, accomplishment, grief, exhaustion, and restlessness. Calming my green thumb, I told it Soon, but not today and walked slowly away from my achievement.