Vines
Late in the summer, they creep.
Not content to climb over the forsythia,
they make their way onto the porch,
their smothering artistry so beautiful you are tempted
to let them slowly swallow you alive.
About this poem
The picture was taken on my back porch. (Yes, I have an old oriental rug on my back porch.), so the poem could be about that. Or about toxic people. Or our personal demons. Take your pick. Whatever you see in it, you’re probably right.
Tom
