You always did prefer the colour green
And deemed a splotch of yellow quite obscene.
A volunteer that, in its moxie, grew
Pops up its head – “pick me!” – and so you do.
Your children grew like weeds, and then were pruned;
To water, sun, and seasons more attuned
These seedlings, in recovering, became.
They grow and show their colours with no shame.
You never flagged, in seasons long ago
But, by and by, your digging had to slow.
To discipline a garden, one must kneel;
Past volunteers, now, you can only wheel.
