The hard seeds I soaked and then forgot
till nearly rotten, and, oh well, pressed in sandy soil
that promised nothing, unfurl—surprise!—a pale green
fingertip, reaching toward a dangling string. Here
I’d hesitate, but at first touch she curlicues, two,
three, six, seven. So prettily lashed, she ascends,
then fans a leaf shape memorized among the Aztecs,
a heart extended. (Yes, I looked her up. The cuter
cousin of the sweet potato.) Gulping sun, she soon
finds the willow storm-wrecked chaise lounge
I’ve contrived into a lattice, attached (poorly)
to our nineteen-thirties stucco. A transplant
myself, I gloat over each sunrise’s progress. Pursued,
then overtaken by swarming sisters, the vine explores,
repairs, disguises. My mother told me I had no
green thumb, but that was in another state. In Florida,
any thumb will do. Fat glossy hearts cloak the wall
this morning, when the most ambitious climbers, finding
only sky to grasp, lift trumpets buzzing blue.
