The wisteria is climbing the kitchen door;

I pull it down, but it keeps looking for a new angle.

It was such a long time ago that Laura and I

Painted the trellis for that vine–it was just

Beginning to grow, and the flowers smelled so sweet.

Summer lasted forever in those days, and

I thought it would take about that long for that vine

To outgrow the cage we were building for it.

But now, it reaches for the very house,

Scaling its walls, shouldering into cracks,

Pulling it back to the dust of its origins.

This house wants its mistress, but she is dust already.

I tear down the vines; they don’t resist much

Because they know that soon I will be gone,

And they can go back to their slow work.

But can’t I stay, just for a while?  The mistress of this house

Would never turn me away; she would drag me

To the couch and bring me cookies and tea

(Wouldn’t matter much if I was hungry or not)

And ask me pointed questions, and

Look me up and down to see what I might

Have to say for myself.  Here, in this outrageous silence,

She is not yet gone.  The wisteria will have to wait.