Honeysuckle Vine
By CL Bledsoe
A honeysuckle vine grew down
the ditch wall, choking the bracken
in the corner below the road. We’d
clamber up the debris and washoff
to pick the flowers, taste the drop
of sweet, more taunt than meal,
then slide our muddy jeans down
to the bottom. Sucking steps took
us over to the road, to play in the pipe
that ran under. If you were tall
enough, you could walk it, hands on
one wall, feet on the other. They
told us it was dangerous, what if
it collapsed under the weight
of traffic? When they tried to send
us home or to school over the bridge,
we said but you said it’s too
dangerous, what if the road collapses?
