Garden Pride

One sits, surely on the slope
of a precipice when pleasurable
gratification escapes the bounds 
of reason to become unearned pride
a hairsbreadth from hubris when
one takes full and unattributed
credit for what nature herself has
designed and nurtured, to look
upon it dreamily as a scintillating
mirage, not reality, revelling in its
ephemeral, glowing beauty
to conclude that I, not nature,
gave the garden life. In assuming and
claiming too much I surely risk
attracting the penance of regret
following ruin, for nature, not I,
commands the elements that
can conspire to make me rue 
my impulsive, compulsive pride.