Spring
Winds
Blew
Down
My
Trumpet
Vine
From
Where
It
Twined
Through
Wrought
Iron
Curlicues,
As
Such
Plants
Do.
It
Sagged
On
It’s
Leathery
Stem,
Touching
The
Ground,
Budding
Clusters
Wrong
Way
Round.
I wove
It
Back
Again,
Over
And
Under
The
Rail,
For
The
Next
Desert
Gale
To
Plunder,
Nature
Pulling
Itself
Asunder.