Tendrils are nature’s hieroglyphs – a poetic word derived from the Greek for ‘sacred carvings’.
In only a few weeks since it found home in my tiny balcony, the passion vine has crawled and sprawled wantonly, its green tendrils clutching at whatever they can find, wrapping them in a tight tender embrace.
I imagine it would feel beatific if you liked the tendril, or asphyxiating if you didn’t.
This morning I focus on the browned ones: calm and graceful in their senescence, done with their juvenile yearnings.
In the soothing winter sun, they emanate a sense of the mythical, eternal, lyrical, and symbolic.