Nobody planned it. Hardly anybody
pays it much attention. A glance
as you round the curve, watch
for the crossroad at the top of the hill.
But here it is, the wild stuff, spilling all the way down
from the orchard where red and yellow apples grow
in neat rows, bordered by mown green grass.
And if you were lucky enough to pull over,
park at the base of the driveway that disappears
into some woods and walk across the road,
you could stand here in the shadowed light,
caught in its spell, struck by the rampant order,
the subtle harmony of boisterous color,
and most of all, how it simply happens,
without a human thought at all.