by Kenneth Pobo
our white sweet pea
curls up and above
the top. We don’t let
the gate swing open
for fear of breaking it,
no longer use the back
door until frost fells
the vine. My cousin
says we’re foolish—why
cater to a vine? Oh well,
we never did much
like her anyway. A vine
offers no opinions,
makes no demands.
Climb.
That’s what it does—
and so well. Above
our gate,
tendrils hoist
a dozen moons.