Sunday, 9:00 AM.
I've got my tired years about me.
They huddle by the window
and press their noses to the pane.
I'd like to make a grimace, line them up
and call them all to order.
Perhaps I'll march them out and prop them up
and have them trim your stems.
Ivy! How many inches have you crept up?
Ivy! Why can't I strip you off of my pane?
Your tendrils block the light.
Sunday, 9:00 AM.
I've got my negligence about me.
Why have you grown so thick and grown so high
and never grown my way?
Ivy! Where were you when the walls were brighter?
Ivy! You left me long before I could know
that you would cling to me.
That was her name, although I can't recall her manner.
That's why I've let it go and let it grow
and left it on my wall.
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