The Parched Garden

My garden muse is wise in the
manner of philosophy. She favours
the fabled Golden Mean of antiquity
though also subscribing to its
ruder, more folksy manifestation
esteemed by those who cling to the
comfort of nursery tales. Call it
moderation or the Goldilocks syndrome; 
too much or too little are devilishly 
problematic. So the muse has taken to 
scolding nature, for it pains her no end 
to see flowers shrivel and greenery wilt
as wind howls while the uncluttered
sky invites the summer sun to parch
the garden. Withholding rain dampens
the ardour of the garden to flourish
and bloom, transforming beauty to
despair. Then came the rain, not 
sweet and gentle, but in a ferocious 
downpour without end, leaving the
garden sadly sodden, the inundation
bedraggling the garden in a sad
and sorry choreograph of root rot 
and perishing plants. The muse in my
garden is not the least bit amused.