Wisteria’s War Cry by Anna McBane

The ground was left groaning by the growing imprint. Each blade of grass withering without the sun. I can see the gut-wrenching darkness that covers his yard, marked with beauty from above. Each blackened stem is wrapped with an unexpected elegance. I see verdant vines that are suffocating, but only with life and beauty. The invasive beast stood towering high above for weeks before. Marking its territory, its recent prize from a hard-fought war. It sent onlookers’ gazes from downtrodden inward glances to eyes squinted with awe at the metaphorical mystery. I awoke one morning to find the vines closer to the herbs than to the nesting birds. The vines had made their final fatal blow. Down came the darkness, the dead and lifeless. But down came the vines, the beauty in tow. They must have heard our conversations about it the day before. We stood huddled around the window questioning its power and reason for consuming. To us, it was a divine revelation, but after the fall it seemed like the Leviathan’s ablation. “Veni, vidi, vici” the vines sang as each branch was chopped, but sooner than later its chanting stopped. The Wisteria’s remains resembled a shrine; like final breaths caught stagnant in time.