What Grew on the Vine
What grew on the end of that vine
I claimed as rightfully mine.
For miles, the vine tunneled and snaked,
And I clambered over mountains for that jewel who’s claim I staked.
I claimed that delicious fruit
That sprung from a distant root.
For many leagues I trail-blazed,
Enduring Nature’s wrath, unfazed.
All to cast my gaze on a winding,vegetated mass
Densely occupied by thorns and tall grass
I took a deep breath, sighed a weary sigh
And waded through plant matter shoulder high.
Machete in hand, I hacked and I cleaved,
Unfortunately making the thicket sorely peeved.
So, I took a more delicate approach
And in return it treated me with lessened reproach.
I spent many days pruning,
Many waking hours communing,
I dedicated years to learning,
A lifetime of reassuring,
To let the garden vineyard know
Under no circumstances would I go.
I labored long for this fruit
For which I trekked a most treacherous route.
When asked what the vine grew,
I always answer with a simple “you.”