Routine Mantenance

It has been a prolific summer.
Perfect weather, Camelot like:
rainy nights cooling the air,
while bright sun filled the days.

Everything grew madly,
including the killing vines
that each year swarm, even in bad weather
over the clapboard barn

reaching down in beautiful green tendrils,
to the windows, threatening
to block the light.
This year, they nearly did.

They are tough, these vines,
fibrous and full of resin that burns like anger,
scars you as surely as loss,
resistant, so resistant to your blades.

But their killing season always fades.
and for a time, the leaves bleed red and die.
Sap stills and withers under the frost
and the killing tendrils relax their grip.

This is your chance.
Your one chance to fight back,
blade in hand, before the winter comes
and you are paralyzed with cold.

And so you cut, aware that if you do not,
if you lose the season, or choose
in your age and tiredness not to fight back,
even this one fall.

Then all is lost.

About this poem. 

There are so many things in life, that if we maintain them, day in and day out, year in and year out, then we are safe. Our relationships are safe. Our work is safe. Our own battles against despair and depression are safe. Our spiritual lives are safe.

But we have to be vigilant. Or else.

Of course, I could be wrong. The picture is of a barn down the road in West Pawlet. They never cut down the vines. And it’s beautiful. And it’s still there.

All the same. I don’t want to take my chances. I’ll fight the battle. Every day.

Tom