The Garden

The Master of the House showed to me his garden
the flowers themselves beaming and reflecting his joy
they were magnificent
products of long weekends and careful plans,
each a tenant of his marriage
or a stated goal --
they were pretty, very pretty
but they were founded on falsehoods.
With growing discomfort, I almost asked to leave.
The goldenrods interrupted, and said, or almost sang
"We have traditional values"
The dandelions seemed to say "We're saving for a romantic cruise"
The tulips, "We are participants of this community"
The sunflowers, "We are happy"
The gardenias, "We go to bed early and rise the same"
The lilacs, "We are patriots, we are god-fearing"

But in the shade, off to the side of the house, there were blue bells and wake robins. They were bleeding to death.

A listless patch of weeds grew behind them,
hiding an arid bird bath.

I turned around and walked back inside.