The Border

My mother's border grew on a clean dirt mound; No weeds undid its pure formality. Some years dark blood verbena laced and wound Among itself, but never wild, never free. Whatever flower stood on guard, it found A raging land of colors there, a sea Of grass the other way. Boys turned around, They might expect some instant laxity On the border's part: purple asters now unbound, White rose petals shattering mutinously. And boys might never know a woman's hands Work always early mornings, pulling weeds. The woman, with wet shears, who understands What ruthless care the clean and formal needs.