Rachel Hadas

Wire and Vine

I’m weeding. But more stubborn than the roots

of dandelions or goutweed are the stalks

of last year’s morning glories, which have wound

themselves around the chicken wire fence

much too tightly to be disentangled.

That fence, whose function is to separate

nature from cultivation, to protect

spinach, kale, arugula, lettuce, herbs,

has become less a barrier than a trellis.

Intimate as lovers, vines now dry

have twisted themselves over strands of wire.

To extricate them now would feel like vandalism,

despoliation of some artifact,

and anyway would take too long to do.

Those clippers rusting in the barn—but no.

They’re too blunt for this purpose. Let it go.

Besides, why even try to separate

partners inextricably intertwined?

Years teach acceptance, which, today, I’m learning,

parsing every twist and every turning,

boundaries, binary, form and content twinned

like vines and wires I cannot unwind.

The most recent of Rachel Hadas's many books is PASTORALS (Measure Press 2025). Professor Emerita of English at Rutgers University-Newark, she lives, writes, edits, and teaches in New York City and Vermont. Her honors include a Guggenheim Fellowship in Poetry.