I just can’t keep up with you anymore. You were climbing Baptist John Ott’s hedges when I was just learning to crawl and you haven’t slowed down, not one little bit. You’re outrunning me, Grandpa. You’ve impudently out-muscled Heavenly Blue, your elder by 50 years, crawled all over William Forsyth’s namesake (a dangerous move … if his boss King George II was still alive he would banish you as he did his very own son!), and now, Grandpa, you have the audacity to clamber onto sweet Carmelita.
It is not without sadness that I rip every one of your 10,000 hearts from my garden. There was a time when we were friends, no, more than friends. I loved waking up to your lively purple presence, and watching you slowly fold your red-violet streaks out of view each evening. I loved it when you dominated my brick wall, and leaned happily on my weathered wood fence. But I must be frank, Grandpa. You’re just too much! From now on I’d appreciate it you would just sow your progeny on my neighbor’s side of the fence. She still finds your looks appealing, your vigor exciting. She doesn’t know you like I do.
I mean it Grandpa! I don’t even want to see the whites of your eyes peering through the slats!