Last spring, morning glories grew here.
Vibrant purple flowers
and vines so thick they covered the trellis with green.
The winter has claimed them.
Only the vines remain,
dark twisted things covered in ice.
Perhaps a better gardener would have cut back the vines
soon after the first frost,
but as a gardener, I lack a great deal.
I prefer the reminder, stark as it is,
of what was,
and what will be again.
About this poem
The picture was taken at my back steps. I plant morning glories there every year.