For a few years I planted flowers,
Placing them carefully in the flower bed,
With little raised walls and pristine soil,
Between the pine tree and the spiky rosebush,
I had tended them with some success,
All the while waiting for the rosebush to bloom.
Yet it never did. I began to doubt,
After three or four years,
Perhaps I was mistaken,
That maybe it wasn’t a rosebush at all,
Merely some ugly, spiny jumble of stick,
That seemed out of place among the other flowers,
And the next year, as I watched I decided,
To let it go that maintaining a garden
Was just too much work, and I let it go.
So I allowed my cats, Emma and Dictator
To spray it, play in the flowers, as I watched
And weeds sprung up where flowers usually bloomed,
I let the cats have free reign of my flowerbed.
And then even beyond the walled bed of earth,
Between the loose stones of my driveway,
Wildflowers began springing up.
They loved the wild daisies and buttercups,
And blue and purple flowers, some are edible.
The tall black-eyed Suzy’s bobbed in the breeze.
And what about the rosebush?
It finally bloomed. One perfect rose,
A crimson red so deep it seemed unnatural,
The soil smelled like a litter box, oh well,
I haven’t touched my garden since,
But ever since, every year the wildflowers bloom,
And every year the roses split open,
The petals blossom like the brightest of smiles,
This past year, there were three lovely roses,
And who would have though my errant cats,
Would be good at these things, or anything else,
As a matter of fact.
from the inspiration of “The Journal of Wall Grimm” By Sage Doyle. I hope he doesn’t mind.