A vine does grow, 'tween jamb and door
tendrils nearly touch my floor
yellowing leaves get sun no more
I wonder what it grew there for...
It grows not well, not full or rife
remove I could with blade of knife
but still the vine survives all strife
Who am I to end its life...
The little vine is quite a pill
avoids a pruning, grows there still
down side of door across the sill
til leaves do shiver from winter chill
And now a gift
to cheer my room
though far adrift
the vine does bloom