Once around the Ankle, Forever

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #253. 

A vine sprawls over the post, leaning

over the railing, pointing down the culvert.

A poodle stumbles to a saunter at pressure

while her boy shuffles up into a yard 

to avoid a parked car, a puddle of old pollen,

and the sly glances of squirrels. 

The coyote feels the vine pointing

and suggests the girl tear her photo,

revealing she's just another vine.

The poodle strains but the boy doesn't see

and the squirrels don't tell.

I think a summer day has become lost in the middle of spring and I'm just ready for summer's hibernation. Poets hibernate in summer, right?

-- chrissa