Here is the vine that weakened the wall that dripped with rain in the shrouded dawn. Here is the touch that tenderly kills, and climbs so slowly, on and on. I've forgotten the hat that I wore in the wet and the path to take to your black-latched door. I only remember the cardinal that kept its perch on the pine, and petrichor. Mornings are early, dusk comes late and the wall is gone beyond the gate but the fallen bricks still hold the green of the ivy, cruel potentate. __________ the photo is mine, from my yard.