by M. M. Kolf
What’s this?
That one small seed
Blown here
From who knows where,
Is sprouting from the dirt?
One lonely finger of vine stretches,
Grabs hold of me, and crawls…
Spiraling off tendrils that
Sprout berries, flowers, and leaves.
Tendrils that are creeping along
This white tomb
More silent than a final shallow breath.
Each day more growth
Transforms this whitewashed sepulcher…
My pallor decreases.
Ivy tentacles clutch deeply,
Become part of me,
And ever so slowly
The old façade crumbles…