The Ground Plantain:
A Growth of Discord
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Behold, traveler: the ground plantain, Plantago major. Though named similarly, it bears no close relation to the plantain fruit, a kind of banana; rather, it is a weed that sprouts young, spinach-like, tender leaves in the wet spring. Beneath the ground, though, it does far nastier work. Those tender leaves, you see, are fed by a tightly-knit root system that, like a manipulative and neglectful lover, drains the soil of every nutrient, but also holds it together. The soil and its creatures eventually have no choice but to accept the presence of this intruder, lest they all be eroded to nothing. So, when eventually summer comes, the plantain grows tough and fibrous, so bitter as to be practically inedible. It chokes the beds in which it grows, and sends a stalk of clustered seed-pods well above its foliage, to be scattered by the wind and take root elsewhere.
The curious thing about this green is that its growing habits reflect the people who brought it to my home-- people like me, as it turns out. The plantain has been referred to, in all seriousness, as "the white man's footprint." Wherever colonists would show up and ravage existing communities, this bitter green would take root in the destroyed lands left in their wake. It would thrive on empty soil, with no care for what came before it, and eventually the ecosystem would become dependent on a plant that sought to be the ONLY life within it.
It does have its uses, of course. The leaves can be eaten young as salad, or added to stews at summer's end. The seeds, tedious though they may be to harvest, can be made into flour. As with many such plants, a fresh poultice will treat the bites of insects or skin sores, and it may even help in conditions of fever or dry cough- not enough is known. And, for all that it is a creeping thing with no home of its own that has not been stolen, hope remains. You see, the ground plantain dies quickly in the cold. Its net of roots, stringy and taut, wither away in the bite of winter. And when spring again comes, the soil that was once packed and dry is resuscitated by the mulchy leaves left brown in the beds. Plantain makes soil livable, after it has been lain low by Good Mother Rot.
So is it friend or foe, this leafy intruder, hm? Well, I don't rightly know. But I suspect, as always, that it is not as simple as all that. Something wicked may do a lot of good if it learns its lesson; and something good may do a lot of harm if it thinks to do good everywhere, to everyone. The plantain is a lot like us humans, it seems, in that it thrives on nothing to build a path for something. There is beauty and sorrow in that, to me. What about you?