Wisteria

Wisteria winds round chandeliers,
lavender swags swoon over balustrades.
Vines cling to the woodwork,
reaching out to tickle wallflowers
under the ear with their tendrils.

Hyacinths bloom through the floor tiles,
penetrating cracks in the marble—
Red trumpet flowers swathe columns
in a many-armed embrace. Climbing vines
do an about-face, snake from dim interior
to full sun—runners pull acrobatic stunts
on the creaking veranda, where once
young belles stood, talking to suitors
over tea, both wondering when
polite words would subside
to silent introductions.

Honeysuckles at the breast
of the ruined rose arbor now
running rampant across the lawn.
This house has become wanton,
yielding to gravity, falling
downhill towards pleasure.

Years ago the wrought iron gates
gave in, green vines tumbling
them backwards into the grass.
Around tiled paths lie fragments
of fine china, a silver bracelet belonging
to that belle—chain links sinking
in loam, rose-print dishes resting
in many pieces, pressed in the earth,
the sweeter for being spread
everywhere across this field.

The garden gate moans on its hinges.
Opening, you have to actually tear away
the honeysuckle stems to pass through.
A sign that these two had best be left alone.