A Creeping Vine

she wondered what it would be like

if she stepped into her poem

would she appear and become

or merely blend into the scenery

would she write herself as a flower

a beautiful and fragile object to be adored

having struggled to make her way out of the dirt

ripped by the stem and placed in a vase all alone

no, that would not do

maybe a sunset

casting her light, bending and blending into the shadows

but no, fading was something she already mastered

maybe a raindrop, cascading across a smooth window

collecting at the bottom

only to puddle and be absorbed into the sill

surely there was a place for her

here in the clever rhyme

she smiled

deciding that she fit best on the outside looking in

as the pen and not the painting

something she knew

something she was good at

like moss, softening the weathered rock in a happy flowing stream

or ivy growing wildly on a well loved family trellis

stretching and spreading herself into the narrative

yeah, the rhyme made her feel beautiful

and she was

even in the background, hidden in the rhythm