We admire the reckless beauty

of the overgrown fields,

overrun by explosions of sunshine-yellow blooms

and tall grass, swaying in tune

to the gentle wind,

like the tangled hair of a barefoot girl

freely running through.

 

So we plant a garden:

parallel rows of rose bushes

alternating with blushing peonies,

gentle pale pink kisses

to the ground below.

 

The watering can rains

its sweet, life-giving water upon the seeds.

Our calloused hands pluck every weed

from the fertile ground

to make more room

for our perfect blooms.

 

“Don’t step on the flowers!”

we say, as the children,

wide eyed with careless wonder, prance

through the freshly cut grass,

growing ever near the gate that guards

our Garden of Eden,

so dear to our hearts.

 

We step back to admire

the garden we’ve made,

but where is the beauty

we so longed to replicate?

Where is the wildness of Mother Nature’s creation?

Where are the beautiful weeds

and the barefoot feet

running free with liberated temptation?