The Unpruned Thicket

I admit the yardwork never suited my hand;

Mowing the lawn is about all the labor I muster.

I resent the sharp edge of the trimmer and shears,

So I planted the saplings together, a solitary cluster.

I delayed the cutting as long as the seasons allowed,

Watching the green shoots tangle, cross borders, and mingle.

Some reached far above me, casting a shadowy wall,

Until intricate branches knit tight, woven and single.

The longer I wait, the more their living combines,

Growing taller and wider, a dense, undisciplined frame.

They interlace limbs in the quiet, tangled and wild,

Leaving no path to follow, no simple direction to name.

At last the cold steel comes out with a dreaded report,

As I step to the thicket and measure the boundary line—

Attempting to salvage the yard with a hesitant cut, Reclaiming the borders from nature’s unruly design.