I kill the vines of life, that move
their Fibonacci curls across the branches
so elusively, as to different worlds.
When I unwound their lustrous strands, they went on
to infinity; it takes that much
to kill the host
– the line of death and life so close.
They’ve become the rooted things who’ve earned some sun
and produce real stems and fronds; they’re like their
only
friends, in fact, what they are slowly assassinating,
with blooms that mourn and say it’s all for the best.
To rip them out as if they don’t deserve their life,
to save, we say, a life, is more savage than we know –
the sounds of Hanna’s piano float, as the alms
of green entanglements are carried without grief
to a new death – compost – purposed for rebirth.
Harmonic 9ths, like vines, may find a way to connect
– if only in the mind – but will always find the crying
that’s best left unexpressed – it’s kind to call it
closure.
