Wisteria’s blooming above the gate

with heavy blossoms borne by every shoot

and it begins to bend beneath the weight

of lavender racemes that hang like fruit.

Its wrist-thick vines grip tight the posts and swell

within the grape-stake fence gaps, an embrace

of many years that’s shaped the vine to fill

the narrow gaps between the posts and stakes.

Time shapes us thus to fit the place we choose,

rounds us here, bends us thus to fit just so.

We hang fast to the things we love and know.

And like this gnarled old vine, my life has fused

to house and street and little seaside town

and they have made me what I am right now.