
In the springtime,
did I hold too tight?
Wrapping the shadows of your feet.
Foraging towards your forbidden heights.
Struggling to grow
in the crevices of you.
Bending ancient thoughts
beneath ever-changing skin.
I am only inching
in your sunlight.
Clinging during downpours,
a sapling,
delicate and flat against you.
Always twining you to me,
interlacing my tenuous grip
with your sturdy confidence.
For you,
tomorrow will exist.
It’s my brevity that makes me
seasonal.
I’m always the vine,
never the tree.





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