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.
