I envy the beauty of a formal garden.
I imagine appearing neatly clipped, colors coordinated.
What a wonderful thing it would be to think in tidy paths
that take me past each important element.
All my blooms would open at the proper time,
in proper order, and in their proper place.
All would arrange themselves around an exquisite centerpiece
of good sense and logic.
I’m more like a tangled wood,
honeysuckle vines and thorned blackberries marking my borders,
tiny violets hiding in my shadows.
I’m a web of branches and green growth,
reaching for sun and sky by day,
moon and stars by night.
My roots burrow into a rich carpet,
hidden things that feed the growth.
At my center — a twisting, babbling stream of moods,
ideas, desires, and dreams.
I envy the order of a formal garden, but my soul knows it could never grow there.
Filling the gaps: Today’s prompt from dVerse asks that we explain the circumstances that led to a poem we wrote. “Me” started as a dream in which I was a patch of woodland with a stream at a center. I was home to flowers and berries and a multitude of creatures. Then the bulldozers came and carved me up into something like you see above. My paths were paved and my hedges trimmed. I think the dream came from a personal frustration with how disorganized I am and that I can’t seem to get from point A to point B along a straight course. My progress toward a goal prefers the winding scenic route with lots of backtracking.
I still get frustrated, but I always wind up thinking back to this dream and this poem. I envy people with ordered minds, but I know I wouldn’t be at home inside one.
How does your garden grow?
This post is a contribution to dVerse Meeting the Bar. Stop by to see what others wrote or to join the fun yourself.