Trimming Ivy

An old man steps out his front door
Only one day in each year.
Every day outside he calls his day of labor
And the sun rises in expectation.

The wall of the man’s house is lush
Ivy that creeps up sheer
Red brick heights. Annual ambush
Comes and the ivy hovers in anticipation.

On the step, the man and morning sun stand,
Encouraging the ivy’s fear,
Saw, snips and stair in hand,
Ready to insult the variegation.

The leaves desperately cling to the wall
As hands sweat, cut, and shear.
Half done, the man’s feet slip and fall.
Ivy and old man rest in amputation.