The landscapers at the retirement village
trim the rows of yellow forsythia
into bouffant coifs
rather than leave them natural and straggly
like their long-haired pink cousins
draping the fence
between me and my neighbors.
Nature is messy and unruly
as a tide
or puddles after a rainstorm
or the jagged peaks of mountains.
Let the forsythia
send their shoots in all directions,
be a riot in the woods and parks
and along the borders of our lawns.
When their time has passed,
let them bend to weep.
