It curls like a secret in daylight,
twining itself around the iron spine,
a dancer spinning forever mid-lift,
its fingertips grazing invisible music.
Each leaf a hand reaching upward softly,
green maps of dreams tucked in veins,
its wisdom wraps the porch in silence,
pressing memory into the wooden rails.
This is what time looks like unwound,
what patience hums when no one listens,
how life refuses straight lines,
preferring the poetry of circles.
The ivy knows what we forget,
that beauty never rushes to its end,
unhurried growth etches purpose onto stillness,
teaching the structure how to bend gracefully.
And every curve is a question
asked again with each turn upward:
what else waits just above
if we let ourselves climb?