Stretched your tubular tendrils out

from square of earth, you call home

            it’s nutrient lode of love

            shading boughs, entwining

            clutch of too close ivy

and become airborne. 
Thrill of cool air, glow of variegated

leaves, before unseen

            now floating in your undetermined

drift. Soft fall into foreign soil

            that for a while, feels supple

sliding at your sides, such different grain
and oh, the fecund thrum of colours

            swaying sun-worshippers

so reed thin and elegant, all pulsing

in the heady scent and thud

of chlorophyll

            coursing through your core.
And yes, you shed a little

            parch in too bright sun

            don’t drink enough water

but briny breeze, new field of friends

and a springtime of freedom

            means you hardly feel your feet. 
You’re not evergreen, after all.

            Surely, meant to seed and stretch

            beyond immovable old roots.

Slowly, though, you start to understand

            the end: this wane’s not

            mere fallow sleep of winter 
no new seasons here but scorch and shine

sucking life from lungs of earth

            so, you shoot out desperate fingers

into dirt which faster friends already fled

            and see your haven: loamy, loose

            and shallow–
blossoms blown to cultivate the new.

Wilted, wistful for the rich embrace

            of home, you cling, frantic

with the ragged scrub

of other weedy regrets

            and wait a stronger wind.