Somewhere locked
in this choke of weeds
spread like a mangy carpet
is the hardened vine
of Pipo’s Concord Grape
he planted in an eager spring
three years ago.
Gasping for air and sun and water
perhaps it has found some way
to hide from my flailing hoe
and the bitterness of my neglect.
Maybe it has buried itself
below the transient roots
of witch grass, sow thistle,
and cockleburr
and can only wait
for another spring
bursting forth
from fresher ground.
