Scions Poem by George Murdock

She is pale in her flower garden.
Unlike the colorful earthbound tenants
populating the rows and beds.
Some uninvited and resisting eviction,
as she roughly snatches them like hair
from fecund scalp.
She is kneeling like a penitent
lost to her prayers.
Oblivious to the rest of it.
I watch her from the window
as I wrestle with form.
Choosing words over feelings.
Weeding desperately in my garden.
Trying to see the flowers
through the carnivorous weeds.
She is better in her work.
Drawing pleasure from the honesty and simplicity
of noble nurturing effort.
While I on the contrary,
an insane gardener, murdering
the flowers with my reach.