The untrimmed hedge rises up,
despite the minimal sunlight exposure.
It taunts me in several ways.
As I walk by, it assaults me with guilt grenades.
I say it’s winter, what of it!
The hedge continues on.
It insults my enthusiasm for other activities.
It strains my joy in escaping the duty of caring for it.
As I walk away from it, its silence calls me back.
There is no gratitude in completion.
The hedge will continue to grow its expectation.
Maybe next time I buy a house,
I’ll make sure there are no hedgerows.