Clutching at the dregs of life.
Waiting for the phone.
Sleeping, and slipping about on legs
which aren’t quite sturdy. Will they
grow, like trunks, and will roots extend
beneath the ground? Will bark
form around me, as protection
from the cold and weather?
Will my new bright leaves turn
bottle green with age, and waxy sleek?
Or will I, ever spindly, tendrils clinging
loosely to the wall, fall
when the wind is high?