Barbara Joan Schaffer

The ants damn near better believe it. They build their towers, perfect circular mounds, and I flood them. But some escape with their Torah or whatever codes they carry to construct another identical edifice a few feet from the last. And I don’t even care one way or the other if some tribe should flourish - as long as it’s not in my backyard. In fact, they do me no harm, except a gardener once told me that they are the harbingers of the truly evil. I fear the leaf cutting ants.

I am God, and the trees I planted are my chosen people. I rain pellets of manna on them and rivers of sweet water. One day I will be gone, but by then their roots will be deep, their fruit and shade much admired, and they will not need me. I am the God they will say never existed except in myth, for after all there were trees before their were gardens; but they are ungainly titans and we do not share our seeds with them.

I am your God but not the God of the wilderness across the street which is truly godless. Nor am I the God of my neighbor’s lot, which is why there is a wall between us.

I say I am God, but the adepts know me as the demiurge or whatever the word for plant maker is in Greek. My masters are as caring and capricious as yours. Remember that! you weeds who think you can just take over because I’ve turned my back.

If I am not God, at the very least I am a tyrant, a fascist, a rabid xenophobic nationalist. I have laid out monumental brick walkways as a testament to my powers. I have put up bougainvilleas and chayas to reinforce the fence. They say there are snakes and scorpions in the wilderness across the street. I speak of that undeveloped lot whose owner does nothing to maintain. I’ve heard he has a machine, but that a blade broke and he had to send away for the missing part. Hasn’t he heard of alternative technologies: men with machetes, goats, cows? Yes, I have seen cows brought in to graze on empty lots.

There is an immigrant watermelon vine growing in my garden between the papaya and bananas. I am not making this up. Of course, I will let it stay. And yes, I wonder what other marvels I am rooting out when I weed. But my garden is a planned, gated community and one can’t take chances and weeds will take over if given the chance. Please, do not tell me that what I call weeds are actually natives; some are, some aren’t. I’m not a botanist; how would I know? Not that it would matter.

The birds fly into my garden from the wilderness across the street. I like birds, but I fear avian flu. Still the birds are OK by me, except if there’s an eagle with a snake in its mouth.