His walls are thick with ivy,
and the stuffy immutable breaths of zealous opinions
climb contentedly, free from predation.
There is no new love here save
how aging fingers dig in deep rich soil to grow tiny
seeds, coaxing gently, more eager vines.
Vines (eager, choking)
Press Send Poetry 
maybe putting his hand to the earth and growing things…even vines…makes him feel a little less alone…
Brian, been a long time, thank you for reading and hope you are well!
Lovely. Just lovely.
Thank you!