They reach across the sidewalk, green curls that twist at throat level, ready to submit a quick garroting to the unsuspecting traveler. No amount of effort can tear them apart: they are as tangled and loyal as lovers.
Two obstinate vines that have leapt over the garden wall: the breeze gives them chase, and they bounce in the air that hunts and hurries. A botanical filigree that is suspended in summer’s rich air, they are lonely, misplaced decorations.
Pale blossoms erupt from the green skin of the escapees, distorted like the faces of sulking children. Dry blooms, parched and coiled, they live within the vines; their pouting petals aligned along their parents’ winding spines. They should be ugly, these parched and irregular buds. However, they thrive within Nature’s flourishing breath and are touched with her earthly creativity: the wisdom that is rooted in the ground. They were born out of her imagination: therefore they are unpardonably lovely.
Even though they scratched my face as I walked, unsuspecting, straight into them. Even though their impulsive coils upset my thoughts. For all of their mischief, they were still the products of fertile grace, a wild bouquet that was there for the catching.