365 feet or seed, if we start from the ending.
Most days I can’t even begin and this ivy
chokes everything: the bricks in the yard,
the white azaleas. Now, even the chain-link
fence around your wrist begins to collapse
beneath its weight because I’m waiting.
For what, you ask. For us? I don’t know,
anymore, except I tell you that ivy moves
really fast. A foot or more each day.
You blink as I recite facts that don’t matter:
how plants grow, total days in orbit, how to tally
silk or grain, the way I counted things before you.