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.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.