Vines

The vines, once fettered for their wine and left to sleep like earthy twine awake

still

never resting, void of will and always testing out the soil

with no reverence for the toil the sunlight’s stare affords a royal drape

but not a grape was cultivated

thankless youth

the vineyard spoiled for want of truth beyond a garden’s weeded charm, the five alarm

fire seems awfully warm

to life left alone, in comes the swarm of wildness

pristine but never mild

necessarily a feral beast to meet me in a grove of trees

with pruning shears and grass-stained knees

apologies for past offences lost in memories of fences I had built

torn down and ravaged for my guilt

the savage kudzu overgrown until it’s good.

It’s all I’ve known.