The wall is stealing you from me,
The vine is stealing you;
The ordered wall devises, the incremental vine
Creeps tendrilly against the wall that broods
To keep you, the protecting
Wall receives the smiling vine that shores it up
To take you, standing monolith as if between,
The little vine has stolen you.
The cheerful vine, the unmoving wall has stolen,
The brick has stolen you, the speechless tendril has,
The leached ground, the persuasive quiet frond,
The bloomless flower has stolen. Do you
Acquiesce? And what icy bastion may I construct
From which to disdain you, when all my mind
Is fire? The ice would not.
My pride cannot a wall construct against,
To answer brick for brick, when my root would burgeon up
And fell it; cascades of roses strew my earth
From out my arms as I watch you choose.
Mysterious words sorrow from my eyes, music
Music, laughter, facet all my speech,
Passioning my hands away from fortress-building.
Shall you, shall you then be stolen? And shall fire and
Hands, shall sorrow, passion, roses, earth,
And love, shall words and mystery, root, and music,
Be enough to mourn you?
–Deanna Harrington Christiansen, 2008, used by permission.
Deanna Christiansen is a poet living and writing in Rochester, New Hampshire. “To Whom It May Concern” is in a collection of her poetry entitled Notes on a Flight Home. To purchase her book and to find out more about Deanna, go to her website here.