Wild Flowers

overrun with wildflowers,
he said, his frown
holding a presentiment
of herbicides
and long hours on my knees,
wielding a trowel.
a garden is ordered,
he said,

and I saw at once
the garden in his mind,
long rows of regimented flowers,
each a mirrored replica
of the next, a battalion of irises
led by a peony captain,
a company of tulips
standing at attention—
their foe
a subtle, guerilla force,
hiding between blades of grass
to erupt in sudden attack—
a foxglove offensive,
violet bruises,
poppy blood,

and I said to him,
it’s my garden.
I like wildflowers.
but he didn’t hear me.
he was too busy
handing me my trowel.

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