Irony of Gardens

What happens when we marry a dandelion and expect them to turn into a rose.

Irony of Gardens

You were raised among the sculptured,
but you picked me;
free, humble, unassuming,
a dandelion, a daisy.

I had no aspirations of living
in gardens with manicured trees.
A dandelion is not high maintenance,
nor do I wish to be.

I work each day in a field of lilies
who envy the roses, who ask for pardons
for the crime of being weeds,
and I wonder at the irony of gardens.

Some choose weeds with inner beauty
then become disatisified
when their weeds won't blend with the roses,
as if the weeds false advertised.

Some are weeds who choose roses,
beautiful but sharp with thorns,
then act surprised and dismayed
when their words cut with scorn.

Now I sit in the rose garden you created,
learning to navigate the maze of white lies,
trying to sway gracefully in society,
envying the dandelions.

In the irony of gardens,
how often do we try
to change the ones we love
from that which first caught our eye.