Rhododendron ‘Hydon Dawn’

And boxwood hedges ‘round the lawn.

Oleander, scented sweet

And Hybrid Yew, in shade or heat.

Rose of Sharon, lush and tall

While Amur Maple blooms in fall

And in the center, bright and airy

A Waxleaf Privet topiary.

 

Well-worn gloves and sharpened shears,

He clips them into perfect spheres.

Fertilizing, pruning, weeding,

Splendid trees from tiny seedlings.

If a branchlet grows astray,

He grips his shears and snips away

‘Til every twig and leaf and flower

Submits to his deific power.

 

And yet there grows a restless soul

Who longs to swell, to break control.

 

The gardener goes to sleep, content,

Another worldly day well-spent,

But little does the gardener know

Of what his garden dreams below

Of twisted vines and unbound branches

Capable of avalanches

And lavish, living aviaries

That, formerly, were topiaries.

 

Clip and snip and trim and prune,

He whistles a vivacious tune.

However, though, his shears are dull

Their pruning powers rendered null.

Slash and slice and lop and hack,

Attack after irate attack,

But steady stands his adversary

The Waxleaf Privet topiary.

 

Lowering his blunted shears

The gardener stands and slowly hears

The merry laughter from his tree:

“It seems you cannot conquer me!”

Ever-wise Epiphany

Bestows upon him clarity

And now, he, simple as a child,

Frees his garden to the wild.