Tangled in chain link, Virginia creeper
blushes all over. Autumn brings blood
to the surface, even as I pull at the vines,
break their clutch upon this border
between my life and the neighbor’s.

Poison ivy blanches yellow and orange,
begging me to lean close and touch.
I back away, remind myself to douse
those toxic roots with vinegar and salt.
The trumpet vine is out of control.
No matter how much I cut,

nothing keeps it from coming back
stronger, sturdier, unwilling to leave
this place. I wish I were half as stubborn.
I wish I could cling to this world, dance
with gust and breeze. I don’t remember

who told me I couldn’t live forever,
but it sounds like a job my father took on.
And I probably hated him for it. Though
now I know better. Even honeysuckle
can choke the life from a tree, drape itself
from those brittle, broken limbs.