Virginia

This creeper has made its way slowly up the back fence. It sprouted out of a tangle of pokeweed and crabgrass and cedar in the darkest corner of the yard. It is in search of sunshine. We are scraping away, seeking the authentic, and there, in the corner of my yard, one finds authenticity in action. This vine, Virginia creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia), grows all over the east, from Ontario to Texas. It survives, even thrives, despite being frequently mistaken for its non-relative neighbor, poison ivy (Rhus radicans). This one won't make you itch. It has five palmate leaves. It holds itself to the fence with adhesive discs growing on the ends of tendrils, branching out from the vine's stalk. Some people call it American ivy; like poison ivy, it is a native species. It grows with the patience of a tree, gathering, building in measured bursts, gathering again. Under beige and white and green and brown, I find bare pine boards, dried with age. Out of a tangle of shrubs and weeds, this vine.

Under the guise of false premises created to scare us into poor decision-making, the President engaged us in war in Iraq. Under equally false pretences he seems perched to escalate the war. Is there an echo in here? Was everybody at the fridge the last time this happened? They turn our objections into opportunity, they are the shrewdest of men. It is time for new vocabularies and syntax. A language steady like the Virginia creeper making its way toward certain sunshine from the back corner of my cultivated lot.