The Ivy

I've been desiring, for a while, to write poetry that is not about myself, but the world around me. Inspiration is always difficult to come across, though. One cannot force it, but must wait until the moment strikes. And so I waited. And waited. Then, just the other day, I saw the most wonderfully ragged growth of ivy climbing up a brick wall, and knew I had to say something about it. There was just too much beauty to ignore. This is what came out, and while it has little to do with the actual wall of ivy I saw, it does attempt to draw on something true, however little it may be. It's a bit short; I wish I could have taken it further, but I couldn't see where to go after the third verse.

The Ivy

The creep and cleave upon the stone,

laid out in ancient line,

calls quietly to earth and bone,

to storm and salty brine,

from spidered hands that hold the cracks

and twist upon the jar,

that see the shell for what it lacks

and wage a lonely war

with root and stem and branch and leaf

against the elder wall,

where growth ascends upon the grief

and carries over all.