Running across the wall like burnt spaghetti
strung out and terse, a creeper confronts
my stare with an unfolding.
Two leaves in pure symmetry and as still as this day
holds breath for rain, gesture to me to accept
that no harm has come to them,
opening like butterflies resting
in their evolution to colour and flight.
Still I fret, even as wisteria
returns, returns with all the scent
of a past when tenderness
circled around that one spot
of garden, the rudiments of neglect
nowhere apparent, embedded deep inside
their purple panicles
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