By | 1 February 2022

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.

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