Woody and knowing,
The old vines wind up, out from dry crevices
That have never known how sweet earth can be,
Vault over walls, leap like fire across rooftops,
Waves of essential purple, pink, and rose
That burn the heavy air.
The yearning of beauty over walls,
Spilling itself into a canopy, a tree,
Or the whole complicated roofline of a village
Is the story of aspiration at these latitudes,
A tale of the eternal calculation
Of the distance to the light,
A glimpse of the constant departure
Of perfection from the earth.