Gardener's Lament

Where's the justice? It is just so ...
unfair. I know, I know, I sound like
a petulant child, so unbecoming in
a woman of mature years. My mood
is the product of frustration. For
indeed, it is supremely unfair. It is
not as though there is a competition
between me and my neighbour, a very
nice young woman whose mature 
years are yet before her. And, in fact,
my garden is far superior to hers, the
product of much hard work over 
the years. Where I have taken pains
to amend the soil from its original
clay base, where I am very particular
about picking weeds from between
the perennials, and where I nip and
tuck, deadhead, and string up, water
and coddle and admire and encourage
she, on the other hand, does none of
this. We are both, it should be said,
fond of gardens. She loves attractive
flowering plants and indulges in the
initial planting, and from then on
every thing she plants is left to its
own devices; to flourish or to die.
Those that manage to survive do so
very nicely, and it puzzles me when I
see the success of her management
though the proliferation of never
plucked weeds is intolerable, those
plants that become permanent residents
in her gardens do flourish. She beams
with pleasure at the very same features
that I do; form, texture, colour, fragrance.
Mine takes attention to detail and work, 
she manages her domain with no effort.