Hollow Ivy in the Bower Grave

Find her, find her
in the hollow ivy
that dances in patterns
on the bricks of desolation,
in the small glitzes of light
that like a ghost in time
lurk in the space between the leaves
of the trees before they fall.
All I ever want is for the leaves on the trees to fall
because the trees are still beautiful
underneath it all; just like her.
And when at last the leaves have fallen
I will be blinded by the humble hues of rising sun,
by her eyes, by her thoughts curling up
the branches of her mind
like hollow ivy vines
reveling in the wake
of cerebral bower graves.


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