armed with barb and painted shield.
They no longer wanted simply to play
their aggressive natures refused to yield.
"A pox on you!" the roses did cry.
The pansies in response turned blue.
While the morning glories yelled, "Die!
You red demons this one is for you!"
All through the garden chaos reigned.
Petals and frail stems lay everywhere.
Only the violets seemed restrained
simply because they didn't care.
She walked slowly into that sunny spot.
The clippers were in her tiny hand.
Soon all differences were long forgot.
They seemed to know and understand.
Throughout that mid summer afternoon
she cut and clipped each blossom head.
Gone they were like a popped balloon
all those cries of war had fled.