The twisted vine that is centuries old
A story that some vintage garden told
With woody coils and structured might
Wisteria clusters bloom in violet light
A silent waterfall that never flows
But softly sways as the breeze blows.
The wild vine is tamed over the years
On a sturdy support, so it prospers
Its strength is slow, a creeping power
Until the moment that it flowers
Forming a bridge of colour, soft and vast
The elegance that’s made to long last
A symbol of longevity, owing to vine’s age
And enduring love, a disciplined grace.
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