Why must they shape me, conform me to their thin, tepid idea of beauty? Upon my wild asymmetry they drape their drab cloak of geometry and fancy; even the name they call me by encloses and entraps.
Once I was free and, like all the Earthgivers’ creation, beautiful in my own self: a home and a shelter and a sign of Its glory. Now in my utility I mediate between herb and grass, and pantomime ape the forms of creatures they fear to meet in their gardens.
In clipped tones I sing only of lonely orderliness, where before I lullayed birds to sleep in my arms. And I die a little more at each approach of the clipper.
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