By Peter T. Cavallaro
“I am the vine,” the Master declares.
Noted. Except that
this jungle is jam-packed:
How am I to know which you are?
Some of them
are suffocating healthy trunks,
lusting, I suppose,
after their sunlight.
Others dangle down
and obstruct the trail,
no doubt envious
of my mobility.
Still others slither the floor
The ivied ones snap at first tug—
The rest are
braided and unscrupulous,
deliberately contorting themselves
to obscure their routes.
Perhaps “vine” wasn’t the image you were going for?
“I am the vine, and my Father is the keeper.”
Shall we address the elephant in the room, then?
This steamy spot is
badly unkempt— nothing a self-respecting grower
should wish to showcase.
To your eyes, perhaps, a cuddling vine
is a garland, but
I am spectating
a death-struggle between shrubs, each one
gasping for air: That is the brutal orchard
to which this keeper lays claim.
“You are the branches.”
Ah, more complications!
For the offshoot of a weed is... no less a weed?
Anyway, it doesn’t look like the vine
lends its appendages much assistance,
leaving those hapless sprouts
to chart their own course
while staving off smothering neighbors.
What on earth can salvage the analogy?
A trellis would be nice. One that I can
put my hand through.
Let me think.
nothing short of tasting the wine—
such that I might judge for myself
the fruit of this melee.