No matter the weather, Crazy Cathy is in her yard watering her weeds. That’s not her real name of course, my round-the-corner neighbor. But she’s always out there in a hooded raincoat, knitted ski cap or floppy sunhat, holding that hose. Standing water from a torrential downpour? The garden hose is full open. Four inches of now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t snow? She’s watering.

If we lived in a more buttoned-down neighborhood, the homeowners association would be knocking at her door. The weeds are so prolific, they are clogging the run-off pipes.

Walking home tonight in the afterglow of a darkening sky, I heard the familiar shishing of Cathy’s hose. The emerging night had bled the color from the yards and road and flowers. Skeletal branches cut black slashes in the monochromatic dusk. Yet, Cathy kept the faith.

We writers aren’t that different from Crazy Cathy. We water our words. From among our weeds, occasionally, we find an inkling of inspiration, a glimmer of greatness. We cultivate our words, paring and pruning. With any luck, perfect prose and poetry will bloom.

Maybe Cathy isn’t crazy after all. She just has hope that one day, against all odds, a flower will push through the weeds and grow.