Novels in the Garden

Out in my garden the flowers grow well
Dressed for a party, but idly they dwell
Never excited, no sign of fear,
Placid, not worried, they shed not a tear.
This is the art that I like in my yard:
Effortless beauty, nothing seems hard.

All through my novels, nothing goes right
Protagonists ever are drawn to the fight
Romance must war against setbacks and lies
Obstacles flourish before every prize.
This is the art that I like in my books:
Challenges, conflict, rivals, and crooks.

Why this dichotomy
Living inside of me?
Is there another way
This art to see each day?

Each of my novels concludes in a way
That promises peace both by night and by day.
The villains are vanquished, the wars are all won,
The good times unfold as the conflicts are done.
The strife of a year, or a month, or a day
Gives way to a joy that for decades will stay.

Out in my garden the flowers are warring
Their fight to share pollen is vicious, not boring.
They jostle for sunlight, they wrestle for rain,
They starve to lure bees, and make seeds in such pain
That after the seeds are released to the wind
They shrivel and die, and that is their end.

Beauty I see in blooms,
Not their appointed dooms.
Conflict I see in ink,
Of endings barely think.

Holistic vision
Loathes this division

In me.