Something in the ground wouldn’t
let it stay and sent a side
of the roots to the wall.
It may also be a case
of mutual aversion,
an impossible love.
A menacing passerby
would’ve nixed it
but didn’t.
A squall should’ve ripped it,
a drought should’ve wilted it
and didn’t.
It grows. In spite of.
It learns to love the wall
the way refugees learn to love
their host country.
It learns to take in rain,
nutrients through
secret channels.
Takes in all manner of lights,
from meager winter glare
to summer’s harsh white heat.
All these take time. Then decades.
It is still learning.
Now it is to make one thing
only, a mural of it’s own existence.
One decked with hairy roots,
inlaid with moss, ruby ash and liverwort.
No pedigree, alive with scars.