How does my garden grow

I am uncomfortable with perfectly plotted, neatly aligned gardens, where flowers, grouped by variety, stand at attention to make the staunchest of drill sergeants proud, the grassy edges of paved walkways are as meticulously groomed as the bikini lines of modern Playboy centerfolds, and the layout is as rigid as a new suburban cemetery. I prefer the garden equivalent of a man’s face two days unshaven, a bed left rumpled after a particularly lurid romp, the flowers cross-dressing and cross-marrying in a blazing orgy of color, doing the tango in tutus when others would have them waltz in ball gowns.

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