Ivy

ivy covers fences

Lush, dark, shading
hidden pathways where
no weeds dare mar bare ground,
where voles run,
rabbits launch hesitant hops,
the cat carries birds that die,
where snakes slide,
insects skitter,
and I don't know what else
happens.

Its secret tunnels exclude me.
What I see is tendrils
with small, bright leaves
crawling up tree bark,
emerging onto sidewalks
from a slow silent glide under vinca,
creeping between stems of
tender, freshly planted
sweet woodruff that It can soon
overwhelm,
mounding over itself until
it's shin-height,
its upper reaches crowned with
spider-web awnings.

Its invasiveness scares me.
It could cover all —
obscuring paths, fences, poles, walls,
climbing shrubs, trees, and
choking their life,
stealing their share of sunlight
until ivy is all.

Dreaming has power to
drown conscious mind.

Dreams affect heart rate, pulse,
respiration, perspiration.
Our brains know no difference
if interior or exterior events
initiate the flood of chemicals
glands release.

I've awakened from dreams
terrified, unbreathing,
or laughing with pleasure,
or snuggled in contentment,
or glorying in beautiful images,
or confused, or repulsed,
or nauseous with dread.

Shake it off and go
make breakfast.
But it haunts the day
or, seemingly forgotten,
seeps out of a crack
in consciousness
in a flood of sensation.

I have entertained
the notion that
Unconscious is the
"real" state and it is
dreaming waking life.

I have interpreted
events in my life
as I would a dream.

I have welcomed the gallery
of symbolism the Unconscious
has distorted from waking-life images.

If this is madness,
I can do nothing about it.

But I have pulled ivy
so it abates for awhile.

I kneel, touch with fingertips
a tender new leaf,
lift the soft tendril,
gently pull, grip the stem
where its wood begins,
jerk it up,
stand up,
brace my feet, and
tear roots from soil
fist over fist
until the vine snaps and
in a final flowing gesture
I flip up a strand of loose vine
twice my height.

I lift dream images
from Unconscious.
I can take only what is given,
and I am careful to convey the
spirit of the dream.

Yet I grasp words,
grab meaning,
rip from the Unconscious,
yank elaborations from the Internet,
break lines to fit an iPhone screen,
and wave aloft my poem.

Profligate

I have an overwhelming amount of ivy in my garden, season after season, covering fences, shrubs, trees, walks.

I have an overwhelming amount of dreams that night after night usher me into the limitless realm of the Unconscious.

The natural world, profligate.