Handmade Paper and Poetry

A Plant and Poem in Two Parts:

A. Arc of Promise

The grape vines leap over my head,
alive with leaves and red antennae.
Corkscrew-shaped twigs
spiral as if following the mating
of jewel bugs.
Nearby raspberry flowers smell heavy,
like cake frosting at Tops.
The vines are a chuppah, my bridal canopy,
my pavilion stretching in an arc of promise.
I imagine a bouquet of bees,
the groom a fellow
stuffed with sun and a scarecrow lop-sided grin.
I will wear the blue sky
in my hair,
and the thin moon
will borrow the day
for an appearance,
laughing at the way
we unite so seriously
under the gay grape vines
twisted into each other,
weaved tight and strong.

B. They Whisper to Small Children

Something eerie
in the gathering of vines
without grapes.

Dripping with themselves, rust-colored
junk, the last
remains of a used car lot.
Grasped around trees like
gypsy fingers,
begging the tulip poplar
for support it doesn’t have to give.
Their elliptical heads sag into
each other. They whisper to small children
with voices dry like strips of bark falling away.

These vines darken dreams
as they gulp the sun with
parched, desiccated tongues.

They are laughing,
like widowers, like witches,
for survival
of their suspenseful lives,
growing into each other
and keeping above ground.