A curtain of brambles hangs alongside the walkway.

I cannot tell if they began in the ground

and wound

their snaky way up the fence and trees toward the sky

or if

they grew, inevitably, from the tree and

by inches and in weeks

plunged towards the black pavement.

I have never understood how things grow –

houseplants or hydrangeas or horses or humans.

But the fact of their changing,

their roots clutching earth, their stretching towards the blue abyss of sky,

fills me with awe and dread.

These thorny vines should have been cleared away

a long time ago.

They are a hazard to the children, who play near here.

They often scratch at me as I brush past.

Someone was supposed to do something about it,

some time ago.

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