The dangling vine curls at its end -
a hook in search of hold.
The breezes bounce and sway that hook -
't looks blindly pushed and pulled.
But that creeper 's not drooping free.
It's reaching as best it can.
Awaiting opportunity -
too patient for a plan.
One day, in sway, it'll set its hook,
and wrap its way around,
and - day-by-day - will climb its way
still farther from the ground.
'Til it links its roots to canopy.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged poem, poetry, Union, Vine by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
