A Trophy

The third house from the corner
with the piano visible
from the sidewalk
and an easel
that’s been empty
for at least 3 years
manifests ivy
that sprawls down the side
of its brick façade.

In the early spring a
ground cover flows along with it
like a tuft of long curly
green hair cascading.
Thin white flowers grow from it
like starbursts.

Always
it reminds me of clouds
something meant to be admired
or puzzled over
soft and fresh
with the very essence of life
something I would never wish to hold.

Even though
I could simply rip it from the brick
(forcing its ivy friend into
pre-natural loneliness)
tear its roots clean out
crush its white petals
and take it with me
wherever I go.

A trophy
that never quite lives up
to the beauty
or the envy
that precipitated the act.

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