Whacked

A gorgeous trumpet vine
winds around my front door,
dropping bell-shaped blossoms
on my door step. Everyday
I sweep their dead brown bodies
into a tan grocery bag, then
perform ritual dumpster burial.

Encouraged by persistent
spring showers, the vine
multiplied madly, sending
tendrils into gutters and cracks,
aspiring to the roof and skies,
snaking into the boxwood bushes,
and whacking my forehead
when I leave my home.

There are boundaries, you know.
Mr. Trumpet vine’s arrogance
begs a lesson. He must learn
his place. Armed with clippers,
tentatively a snip here,
cautiously a cut there,
until left balances right:
trim becomes prune and shape.

Today the green vine twines
round my door-—smaller,
decorous, and well-behaved.
Golden bright flowers
dazzling like sunshine gone.