Domicile

Native to the steppes of Ukraine, as well the sun-burnt tundra of southern Russia – whatever the strife in rooms where battles are born, your encampments run vigorous, long feathering the fringes of farms, your lavender froth rising above the bodies of the fallen, waving in any wind. If a field goes fallow, no one left to till the wheat, more room for the purple victor.

Come ashore in the 1800s, you now flaunt flowers in thirty states. Only the wettest climes escape, valleys bedded in shade. California, Montana, Colorado and Wisconsin all spend to reduce your spread. I have dug six hundred roots from my yard, and still you thrive.

Flower

Aster family, urn-shaped flower head, your thistle-top crown more lavender than lavender. Your bloom edible, though I won’t rush to pluck a bouquet for my salad. Your puff of spindly petals tells me where to dig. Thank you for the signpost, sure guide for my weeding frenzy. I begin at dawn. I resume after the sun has played out the desert and the chatter of birds returns to accompany my bobbing figure, slicing with shovel, then bending to twist and tug the floral stem, hoping to ease out the full root. I lay flower upon flower in my pail, a purple death bed heavy with purpose.

Stem

It's a hairy pulpit you offer, that strand tough as leather, as thistle without the cutting bite. Rarely do you break, except at the base, slipping clear of that pregnant root. You prevail. No question.

Leaf

First you surface in a rosette of leaves, flat to the ground, your vital plumes brighter and larger than the wispy fronds that rise up in later maturity. I can pinch you out in your youth, fragile shoot. But the root stays behind, biding its time for another rosette to claim the dark and burdened earth.

You colonize the ground, dense stands aided by toxic chemicals that kill competing plants, the lowly clover and grass. They don’t stand a chance. Even dandelions, outclassed by this allelopathic menace, lobed leaves with wavy edges. Beware.

Root

It is how you propagate. Oh yes, seeds do their part. But are outdone by your pernicious roots, shooting sideways for a fresh spot of dirt. Presto! You climb down and up at once, your underground stem, tough and black, often deeper than your surfaced growth. They have found you 23 feet under the green. Pulling you, a shoulder’s sore chore. Even if your vertical lodge comes free with a spade to loosen the packed turf – with luck, four out of five tries -- you break off at the rhizome with an audible crunch.

Eradication

RoundUp won’t touch you. In a gated community south of town, they fine homeowners $500 if knapweed is spotted on their property. Another $500 each month until it’s gone. Some claim tilling is best, but root fragments are then spread throughout the plot. Repeat mowing will reduce generation by seed, not root. Scientists are experimenting with biological control. A gall midge – small fly – lays eggs in the shoot tips of knapweed. Emerging galls reduce flowering, stunt growth. These promising flies, not yet available to the public.

Stands of Russian knapweed have been documented to last 75 years. Older than I. Safe to say, we won’t be wiping your species out any time soon.

Ecosystem

In the fourteenth century your root and seeds yielded ointment for wounds and pestilence, and along with pepper, reversed loss of appetite. You’ve been known to cure a sore throat, a nose bleed. I’m not eager to test these claims.

By whatever name you’re known – Turkestan thistle, mountain bluet, Russian cornflower, Logger Head, Bottleweed – you draw the grazing horse. A nip of your green fancy, and the horse is bit by chewing disease. No laughing matter. He will make like he’s chewing when he’s not. He will chew real food and spit it out. He will yawn relentlessly, or toss his head violently to shake off the attack. Muscle paralysis will set in, and he won’t be able to drink. A sure sign: when the horse submerges his muzzle deep in water, flowing direct to esophagus. He’s been bit.

Hay is no safer than foraging, if knapweed has been cut along with the grass. Even dry, it will poison the horse. Mules and cattle tolerate your noxious growth. No one knows how. I feel for the horses. They keep me digging, weed by weed by weed by weed.