You spouted and grew unexpectedly
behind me, around me, securing me -
I feared you held me too tightly
so I cut myself free and ran.
That didn't stop you from tripping me with your roots
knowing, hoping that I would fall right onto you.
And falling, I did.
Maybe I'm not the ocean -
maybe I'm a flower who has never before kissed the sun,
only sprouting from artifical
(I don't even like miracle-grow)
It doesn't take a miracle for me
to know that all warmness had left me
and found you.
I found you.
Suddenly my wrists were wrapped in ivy and I no longer tried to cut free -
Ivy (Part Two)
— and then the grasp loosened,
my wrists burning from the touch;
I found myself in a drought.
Where do I go from here? —
to water, to a calm heart —
welcoming my wishes to cut free, to run —
but the farther away I went,
the more he grew without me —
the greater his leaves covered my mind.
I could never keep plants alive;
I allow them to dry up,
then attempt to preserve their beauty —
but Ivy leaves are yellowing,
Ivy is wilting.
Overwhelmed with that I don't really know,
Ivy thorns pierce the thoughts of my unrequited mind.
My Ivy grew back this morning.
I could swear to you it was magic —
the leaves had turned golden —
I thought it was doomed to die —
but then Friday turned to Sunday
and sunlight kissed the stems —
before I could even notice,
Flowers bloomed and my wrists were no longer bare.