In Tallahassee, in the Heat

In Tallahassee, in the heat, I tried,

Weekly, to purge our wooden, man-height fence

Of a pernicious vine, arm-thick. I pried--

Though without proper tools or proper sense--

For what seemed like hours, to no avail.

My bolt cutters could not break through the stalk.

Despite their dents, each day the vine inhaled

More fence, and dug itself in, hard as rock.

Eventually I succumbed to despair

And let the vine grow when and where it pleased.

But now, a decade on, the whole affair

Has turned to allegory by degrees:

The vine is hope, let's say, which though we try

To break it down, never quite seems to die.