My Metaphor

 My grandmother is a flower garden. A small plain,simple, yet elegant wooden gate provides an entrance to the beautiful garden.  Rows upon rows of brightly colored flowers line the pathways of soft grass and dirt. Everything has been placed so neatly and precisely that if anything were to join this garden without permission, it would stand out. The menagerie of flowers from all corners of British Columbia lighten the air with their sweet scents. The few weeds that exist in this garden are small, and well hidden amongst the masses of blue, purple and red flowers. But visits at this garden are short lived and can easily bore those who don't know how to appreciate a garden. And thus it is often and easily overlooked by even friends and family.