Your careful hands levelled out the budding bloom, and set the staging pots aside the heat of noon, thoughtful timing shifted them from watery sheltered vase to rough garden ensembles, like that you shaped the ravenous growths again and again.
With careful fingers you massaged around the banks, no garden book to guide such terrifying specimens, you could not bring the scythes to taper off the exploding flanks, so you watched from further every night.
And so with time you peer with awe at the new garden features, puzzled by a wilting stem, delighted by a fanning brush, sometimes tracing natures path, other times your gaze will be lost. Your garden bright and overgrowing.
Open the door dear gardener for life has been unleashed, when the toil of daily demands has reached its peaks, remember your creation. Know that all the blooms that cheer the neighbours, would, with your hand - the Nation.
This poem is an ode to my mother, creator of the garden that is my life. This poem thanks her for her perfect gardeners touch, helping to help me bloom, knowing when to shelter me from the scorching sun and when I'd overgrown the staging pots. But like all children, I grew in wierd and unpredictable ways, as if the garden was itself now out of control and the gardener had to watch from further every night. But though my developing personality and interests sometimes delighted her I know parts of my thinking and philosophies frighten her. To her I imagine it to look like a bright (in that her creation will always be rose tinted) but overgrowing (out of her control + out of control in general). The last stanza is an invitation to her to not shy from lending a hand back in the overgrowth. Despite what I hope to be myself now manifesting in some small way (i.e delighting some of the neighbours) I rely very much still on her to consolidate this mass of energy for a higher purpose still.
