The vine entangles her mind
She quenches the thirst of the roses
With her tears
Grey clouds weigh down
She is still as a flower in a press
Though feels less lovely.

The roads to both left and right are steep.
With energy drained
She struggles with the vine
Unable to escape its clutches
Arms folded inward and head bowed
She slips this way and that on the mossy bank

The sight of a hundred lilies in all their glory
Could not gladden her heart
And of the roses she knows only thorns
Their beauty and fragrance elude her
Her mind knows only the ivy’s grip
A grip which freezes her mind in time

There is no forward or even backward
And this moment is like a frozen stream
Awaiting its release by the sun’s rays
She stares but does not see
Feeling only the ice, the thorns
The grip .

Like an icicle she hangs.
But I will plant more roses
And trim the vine
And wipe the moss from the path
So that when she is ready
She may find release.

03/05/2005