This coral vine is a verb.
If I turn my back, it’ll eat my house.
I think maybe last summer it did…
We came back to find it licking the roof, feeding the bees. Beneath it, a summer snake slipped into something more comfortable, left us her skin on the back patio.
Who knows what it all means?
Sometimes I can’t keep straight what I’ve done and what I’ve imagined. It’s like being in two places at once. I’ve walked past people who thought they were my friends, without even a word, and I’ve smiled too warmly at strangers.
I’ve found myself talking to the vine and the snake and the end of summer as if I’d learned their language.
They speak mostly in light —
clear,
but hard to pronounce.
Harder to share…
I need to remember:
Time is a verb,
and I have a box that can freeze it in place, like light between raindrops.
Like a snake between skins.
Like me between the jaws of green.
Words and photo © Jaime Greenberg, 2019
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