Waiting for the gardener, amidst tangles
of weeds, unpruned vines, ivy
invading my yard, green interweaving gray
fence posts into a rugged raft.
The gardener will prune and mow, tidy
and sculpt, methodically unravelling
knotted brambles, artfully arranging
this muddled acre. Still,
as he arrives at the weathered gate,
I hesitate, certain that, if they could
speak, my wilding masses would say:
We prefer nature’s order to your chaos.
But, while the birds (and I)
would ardently agree, how my neighbors
would react is hardly a mystery.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six