Grace



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…

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