By Colleen S. Harris
We damn the creeping canopy
crawl-clutching its way up walls
as though to devour what we build
given enough damp and hours.
Superstition.
Science says it serves
as thermal shield, combating cracks
by warming walls against the rapping
knuckles of winter, cooling them
against the curdle of summer, pulling
at pollutants and purifying air,
answering the perpetual prayer
for a chance to breathe easy.
Blessing or doom, Hedera helix
only works upon what already is:
the ivy guards good walls from salt,
immune to tears and ocean air,
but where towers already waver,
it grows into the cracks and holes,
prying.
Pulling.
Exposing the marrow.
About the Author
Colleen S. Harris holds an MFA in Writing from Spalding University and works as a university library dean. Author of four poetry collections and four chapbooks, her recent work includes The Light Becomes Us (Main Street Rag, 2025), Toothache in the Bone (boats against the current, 2025), and The Girl and the Gifts (Bottlecap, 2025). Her poems appear in Berkeley Poetry Review, The MacGuffin, Salvation South, and more than 120 others.