The Rioting Garden

There is a riot ongoing right
outside my door. My eye is arrested
and there I stand, defenses absent,
a prisoner of the garden, where a
riot of form and colour, competing
shades and shapes contrasting and
appealing wage their battle for
territory and assumed entitlements
to grandstand and purloin from
neighbours their hard-fought
recognition as blooming champions
in a never-ceasing struggle to 
obtain and maintain vaunted status
as the epitome of garden grace,
perhaps overlooking that the
timeless foundation of a well-ordered
garden is the graciousness permitting
rivals in beauty and presence their
opportunity to share centre-stage.
But no, their stubborn pique against
fair acceptance calls me, the
caretaker of the garden, to arm
myself with spade and secateurs
to enter the fray, chastising and
committing the miscreants to order.