The Vines {a haibun}

I step outside my front door at sunset, stooping to pick up a loose paper. It is wet with rain, and the writing is smudged. I read the words, “Please clean vines off home”. It is signed by the property manager. He gives me one week to comply.

There are no vines to my left or right. I walk around to the back of the house, grumbling. I discover the offender. It stretches from ground to roof, weaving its way through the slats of vinyl siding.

I am afraid. How will I reach that height without a tall ladder? What if I fall standing on something? I do not have the proper cutting tool. There is no one to help me. It is getting too dark to see.

That night, I cry softly. How did the vines grow so tall so fast? Would I need to hire someone? Should I consult a gardener? I imagine the stubbornness of the vines–their thickness, their invasiveness, their resistance.

Hot summer morning…
kitchen scissors snipping vines–
one by one they fall.

3 thoughts on “The Vines {a haibun}

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