At first it looked abandoned

Perhaps for a long time

The ivy reclaiming its space

Up the eastern wall

Clinging to weathered wood

Vines listening to the echoes

Of pots, arguments and baths

In human residue.

 

The window is a mirage…

 

…where the light gets through

Inviting a congress of ivy

Reclaiming and renewing

The ancient rites of reaching

For the light, clinging to a

Weather beaten eastern wall