by Kemry Farthing


There is an ineffable green
and there is no justice
in minimal effort and lack of vocabulary.
But that color holds the perfect temperature;
in it everything grows the same height
and punctures hands instead of hearts.

I fancy myself a Dickinson
so caught up in window weeds that I’ve found religion
in the shape the ivy makes when it clasps to the brick
and climbs back down in its own harmony.
Willingness and completeness
exist in small places crawled over by twiggy ants.

White noise is conducted in broom strokes and spider
webbing. Also, it is
not so much a chirp as it is a constant 
story telling of rain
and wind and trust.
And she hasn’t stopped her going
for as long as I’ve been here.
And I doubt
in all that is left of this one plot
that she would ever notice me tainting the time I pilfer here. 


KEMRY FARTHING is a poet and children’s book author. She lives in Virginia with her husband, two children, and overrun vegetable garden. Her work has been published with Riza, Recenter Press, FLARE, and more. 


Photo: “Ivy” by Amaury Henderick