Without Reserve

Wholly without reserve

like a nineteenth-century capitalist,

the garden jostles itself,

the peonies cheek by jowl

with the glads, the miniature roses,

the mint, forget-me-nots, columbine;

the calendulas smack up against the lilies

all vibrant, all focused on growing,

willy-nilly, fast, reaching their maturity,

blooming, going to seed, rapidly, efficiently,

with no holding back. No weed has a chance in this assemblage of

muscular flowers.

It is all a little laissez-faire,

but wild with color, with fantasy,

with blooms.