steady as the constancy of change--
a vine that shimmies up a pole, clematis in my mother's garden.
each year, it dies.
each year, it winds a new path up the lamppost, growing bigger flowers,
deeper, brighter than the year before.

steady like the ground in which its roots grow downward in the soil,
steady as the hands that prune it,
steady like the sun and rain that call it forth to life.

a journey to the cul-de-sac and further, up the drive,
will every june return the favor:
purple blossom on the splendor of its vine.
as steadily as seasons leave and then return to bring another year,
the caretaker's hands become a trifle more worn.