by Cheryl Zovich
It's genetic, this madness
and addiction to color,
to textures. Lusting for the
precise arrangement of
height and hue, I toil
to restrain nature, struggle
with forcing chaos to
conform to my idea
of beauty. But the meadow
presses in, unfettered by
limitations. No balance or
arrangement by color chips of
perfection, no agenda, conundrum
or rules. It doesn't waste
precious time wishing
portulaca might be blue.
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