Volunteer blooms rise high
in our beds— tangles of violets,

golds, pinks reaching sunward
as they have for centuries.

We enjoy their sweet scents, see
bees and butterflies drink, dance.

Nearby, a neighbor weeds
all out but his delicate white

shasta daisies, allowing not
a single sunflower to rise.

He calls himself a master
gardener with his sharp shears.

But when he dares broach
our shared fence to spray

poison on common soil,
we swiftly release

a cloud of dandelion seeds,
then call upon the wind. 

It picks up into a storm, fierce,
knocks him back, 

buries him in the very dust
he plows.