Vines wait.
Kernels of pregnant possibility.
Peeking into life
Like children around the corner of a door.

Vines blossom.
Bright colors on concrete
Splashing goodness
Like God’s fingerpaints.

Vines grow.
And pray they do not grow too old
Gnarled branches and thorns of stone
That bite or grasp an open hand.
But pray that in their season,
Boughs stretched out like arms
Love cast like seeds to the wind
That they exhale
The precious breath
Now meant for someone else.

Vines die.
So gather round
And sing your goodbyes.
Tears watering.
Joy rooting.
Gentleness embracing.
So that new green can
Shout like fireworks
From the dark earth.

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