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David McLansky

(5/24/1944 / New York City)

Vines


All vines curl toward the light
Deep within the shaded night;
Twist and reach within the tangle,
Grip and leap from every angle;
And I a seed of dead leaves born,
Crawl aloft as one forlorn,
Knowing that I strive in vain,
Still encased for all my pain;
Enclosed in darkness as I call,
The towering trees umbrella all;
A vine of chance in midst and gloom
Who savored not the silver moon.

Submitted: Sunday, December 02, 2012

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