Old Works, Rebecca Tabbutt

Note from the Author: I resisted the extremely strong urge to edit. 

Don't die, I whisper
To the clinging vines
Wrapped tight across the hard rough stones.
My hands
Themselves rough and hard
Stroke the velvet vine
Its once hearty leaves
Drooping
Under the weight of the heavy rain.

That vine was once my comfort.
On the sleepless nights
I would wander
To its cool green bed
And when it had been ripped apart
By anger at its creeping growth
I would nestle down
Among its broken arms
And let them heal around me.

Don't die, not now
Not ever.
Even when you're cut apart
Thrive for me.
When tiny insects plague your leaves
Live for me.
So I might stumble
Little sleep
Into your waiting arms.

-E. Rebecca Woodward, July 1995