The ivy said to the tree it lived on
‘Give me your fruit to color my flowers’
quietly the tree went about its business.
The ivy climbed the bumpy bark
‘Give me your sunshine clean and sharp,
my roots are weak, demanding and distant.’
The tree extended it sreach and will
and called upon the drought and the parasite
to bite the superficial and swallow the hanger-on.
The ivy shrunk exposed and feeble
in dessicated voice accusing,
‘Why did I trust this fatal liason?’
Quietly the tree went about its business
with dark and internal industry
and thus the worker rids itself
of the inept, and proud, and selfish.