Ivy

1.

The way that ivy clings, you’d think a spouse
or parent had abandoned, 
that a house
is something ivy needs, 
at least, a wall
for shelter and to cling to. 

2.

Ivied halls provide a home for sparrows. 
Ivy vines
invite sentimental valentines
and cards at Christmas:
moonlight, roofs of thatch
and tinsel at the windows. 

What is that, if not need for attachment? 

3.

Ivy roams and wanders like a gypsy, 
honeycombs the eaves, shades attic windows, 
pokes through soffits,
embroiders frames and sills, 
disguises faucets,
in every nook and corner
tacks up lace
of leaf work like a blanket. 

4.

I have heard a man is judged
by whom or what he fights, 
the cause adopted for his challenge. 

I have tried to challenge ivy’s growth, 
have yanked and pried. 
It’s ivy always wins
through singleness of purpose. 

5.

Vines don’t quit.  

They act as if eternal, 
bind to brick, support the lust of birds, 
make space for ants
and dust that I shall be, 
more likely ash.

 And ivy will be there, 
one of the plants
that pays the price of freedom, 
every chance
exploiting space to grow, 
that’s free of hands
and human interference.

I may have land, but will no longer care. 

6.

Do not, by chance, plant flowers
on my grave. 

Let vines advance to cover. 

Let birds make claim and ants
to space for nests, 

the wind and rain make music
for the dance,

whatever dance there is
when battles fail.