Will I?

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?

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