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.


Forum Comments:Abacus
Image Credit:the.mutator
Bethany Lim has been reading for many more years than she’s been writing, and she very much enjoys surfing the web here at PoetryCircle. She loves when she writes something unexpected and hears her voice change into something new, morphing into a different style.


  1. My goodness, you are talented. I read it several times to understand, while your imagery is delightfully delicate, sturdy, incessant.

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