Gardening

Their beauty is so ravishing
I am left uncertain whether my
eyes have been bewitched by their
form, texture and colour, nature's
gift to me in the most intimate of
collaborations or whether it is their
own haughty conceit in the certain
knowledge they are indisputably
of royal vegetation lineage and I
a mere servant prepared to do their
bidding. There is a hint of the latter
in their mute reproach as they sit
and fester resentment at my lassitude.
For it was I who invited them mere
hours earlier to accompany me,
I who promised them each and 
every one, a throne of their own
suitable to frame their evanescent
loveliness, and it is I who now leave
them awaiting the fulfilment of that
assurance. Yet they have not been
neglected for as they wait they have 
been watered and given a place of 
honour in my garden, and the sun 
bathes them in warmth and light. 
They are young and impetuously
demanding, while I am neither yet
mean well. And I mean to tend to
their planting on the morrow. Their
impatience, a product of arrogant 
youth and beauty, augurs well that
their summer future is assured. While
they preen and fuss over themselves
I plan to praise them and plant them.