There is a certain sort of beauty in wildness
and weed, an unstructured, “come what may” attitude
of a garden untended. An overwhelming greenness, 
even when much of the green is weeds.
An unspoiled look of a vine overtaking
a bench, and the unexpected surprise
of blueberries, popping out of the jungle. 

The lack of need for everything to be in its right place
could be interpreted as relaxing, I suppose.
But there’s another side, as well. A side
where a created world calls for order,
a garden calls to be maintained. The weeds
jar your conscience, once you know
what they’ve done, establishing
themselves in good soil, so nothing else can grow.
A trained eye soon can only see wasted potential,
the opportunity missed, for a thriving,
fruitful garden. A hand with a green thumb itches
to get to work, cutting back weeds, planting
flowers, restoring the beauty
of a tended garden.