Vines in Vignette

 August 26, 2011

It’s gossamer.  Sharp like a papercut, pinching and pulling; deep like a pinprick.  Tight like a noose, but oh so fragile.  You can slash it with a thought and feel it whither.  Dried it falls from the surface, brittle.  Were it to grow it could bring forth fruit, flowers, thorns; something lovely or something poisonous.  It could encompass completely, a shroud to bind, to protect, to entangle and soothe.  But its questing tendrils you rip from their moorings, unceremoniously.  Feel the twitch, the seepage from the borings and let it drop to the ground.  Stay your feet; it is a beautiful parasite.  Do not relish its destruction, rather mourn your inability to allow it to blossom in your garden (for it could have been lovely).  The piercings burn yet but will soon dull.  Maybe another will bud in its place, one less impetuous in nature; a vine with deep roots to survive drought and turmoil.

A vine to connect but not entrap.

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