wrote the following after Métivier's 1857 poem, October, which you can read in this previous post of mine.
The honeysuckles have grown down over the window like many arms reaching out to shake me free from my sleep-walking life. Their thinking is clear. They speak through movements. Daily longer they beckon urgently, insisting in leafy waves. They went like this all last summer. Wild like they're crawling back to a cliffside wilderness they've never seen. Impelled by unseen forces. And they are intent on waking me from my permanent semi-slumber. Rapping, tapping at the window like an angry landlord I've ignored too long. From this angle it looks like they could swallow the place whole, reclaiming in the process this land which is rightfully theirs. Nature is awake and vibrant in every moment, even when we call it dull. Perhaps I'd be better off in a honeysuckle nest. They answer me now by flailing frantically and spelling out a clear 'no'.
The honeysuckles have grown down over the window like many arms reaching out to shake me free from my sleep-walking life. Their thinking is clear. They speak through movements. Daily longer they beckon urgently, insisting in leafy waves. They went like this all last summer. Wild like they're crawling back to a cliffside wilderness they've never seen. Impelled by unseen forces. And they are intent on waking me from my permanent semi-slumber. Rapping, tapping at the window like an angry landlord I've ignored too long. From this angle it looks like they could swallow the place whole, reclaiming in the process this land which is rightfully theirs. Nature is awake and vibrant in every moment, even when we call it dull. Perhaps I'd be better off in a honeysuckle nest. They answer me now by flailing frantically and spelling out a clear 'no'.
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