Flower Field

He used to be meticulous about tending the field, for he didn’t like the sensation of prickly weeds or pokey grasses against his skin. He’d carefully prune the vines which crept up the building’s walls, considering and then arresting their future path. Even the trees had an arbitrary limit, a height they couldn’t surpass. 

Then one day, all of it—the standards, the care, the cutting—he let go. Weeds bloomed, grass stretched to the trees. Ivy ran amok until its vines consumed the brick and stone. “Why are you neglecting everything?” I asked. He asked: “Would you like to take a walk through my new field of flowers?”