When the twisted vine wraps the daffodil,
when the thistles outnumber the daisies,
and the open field requires boots to walk through,
this is not the end, though lazy souls protest it is
This is the time to till and turn
to gently prune and roughly pull
to treasure every right and proper blossom
to stamp out each unwanted thorns.
Let us forge paths that our children will walk upon
with fresh faced feet, heels unheeding of every tick
laughing at earthworms, crowned with daisies,
till they reach the end of our work,
and forge ahead through the underbrush.