My first favorite thing about henbit dead-nettle: the name, my god, that name. A name that requires an “excuse me, did you just say ‘henbit dead-nettle?’” You can imagine the name rolling effortlessly out of some ancient British botanist’s mouth like pipe smoke, watching his chickens feast on the plant’s tiny seeds. You can play the name on a piano: one TWO three fourfive. Henbit dead-nettle. Say it out loud like an incantation, like the wheeziest epithet, roll it around in your mouth, let it soundtrack your sweeping, your dishwashing, your walking down the street, so that passing strangers are forced to consider: did that person just call me a henbit dead-nettle under their breath?
My second favorite thing about henbit dead-nettle: it’s look. It is hairy. It looks like it has slyly wandered into our universe from a Dr. Seuss landscape, a Whoville tree shrunk to the size of a common weed. It is a kid’s idea of a plant: draw a straight line for a stem, scribble a ring of leaves like a lily pad, leave an inch of space, repeat scribbled ring of leaves and empty space until you reach the top. There, pinkish flowers explode out, the world’s smallest, proudest trumpets.
My third favorite thing about henbit dead-nettle: it is a “weed.” “Weed” is human for “we cannot control it,” and boy, henbit dead-nettle sure loves to rub that in our collective face. An ocean of concrete cannot stop it. It springs from cracks, from concrete’s failure. It is a green fist, a tiny wry smile trying desperately to beautify our unthinking ugliness. Meanwhile, we try desperately to erode every inch of soil on this planet. Henbit dead-nettle, like other weeds, holds the land in place. It casually points out, cooly smoking a cigarette, that you may have a problem in your garden, buddy. Too much bare soil. Not enough nutrients. I might know more than you do, it says in a glowing whisper.
My fourth favorite thing about henbit dead-nettle: its importance. It first appears in that no-man’s land between winter and spring, adding a quiet shock of green to brown fields. This little plant, so easily trampled and sat upon, helps bees survive winter and gather enough energy for spring. Birds eat the seeds. Voles and turtles eat the tender leaves. As the days get warmer, it attracts hummingbirds and butterflies. And in a pinch, you can eat it, raw or cooked. It tastes like peppery celery. It tastes like spring, toughened by the roughness of winter and sweetened by steadily increasing days.
This week in Austin, the warmer temperatures will fall away. A massive cold front will chase us from the parks and gardens and into our homes, these too-familiar places we’re desperate to escape. Spring will be swallowed by a winter that will not leave, and it will feel like we’re now cursed by reversing seasons, the latest curse in a cursed time. Outside, henbit dead-nettle will hold on. It will keep moving the clock forward. It will keep holding the land for us until we return.