My once magical garden is less discrete
with two-foot-high plants growing under my feet.
My beautiful fescue is obscured by weeds,
my succulent sun rose and tall slender reeds
choked out by visitors never invited.
I cajole my gardener. This must be righted!
This situation has grown to be dire.
The driving rain has prodded them higher.
If you want to come over to see how high
my rainy season weeds are, please bring a scythe!!!
Ha! When I went down to take photos of the spare lot I am trying to convert into a garden, Pasiano was in fact down there with a weed-whacker, working diligently, so this poem was obsolete even before I posted it.