What Grew on the Vine

Photo by Anastasiia Chepinska on Unsplash

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.”