Ivy came in low,
skirts hitched, no apology.
Climbed the house like gossip,
wrapped her fingers round the flue.
Bindweed wore white—
too tight, too late.
She married the trellis
then throttled the rose.
Blackberry barged in
with blood on her lips,
spilling rubies in the hedge—
a tart, a thief, a bramble kiss.
They cracked the path,
unzipped the lawn,
slipped roots through the pantry
and slept in the walls.
We called them weeds.
They didn’t flinch.
Only laughed
and took the garden.