I call them weeds, for lack of a better word. What it is, a mess of dead white flower vines, tons of long-needle pine needles, caught up in the vines a few years back, other assorted dead leaves, spider webs, twigs, some Morning Glory stems, twisted around the medal. I have been outside using a scissors to cut through the mess of ugly, drab brown.
Despite the men just chopping their way down the fence, there are still green vines shooting up here and there. So perhaps next spring, if I be here, will have a bit of sweet scent outside my back door. This year's crop of white flowers was abundant as previous years, but not as sweet, died quickly due to rain or wind or cold. Who knows. Disappointment; I used to bring the scent indoors with many sprigs of tiny white flowers.