(I dreamt this image and also dreamt I wrote a poem about it and posted it on the internet. So here we are.)
The front of the house had concrete steps.
The philodendron crept up them,
One leaf after another--
A waterrise, not a waterfall--
Row after row twined together, a carpet of green stems
And heartshaped leaves streaked yellow.
It turned the corner and overflowed the porch.
It spilled down the other set of steps.
It became a young road, the jungle on its own mission.
All thick and powerful cords flexing their muscles,
The road crawled the sidewalk past dusty grey lawns,
Past weed-grass tall as wheat,
Past clumps of rotting evergreen.
It poured itself into dream-country,
As Jack's beanstalk had once upon a time,
And no longer felt any pressure to be real.
Here the philodendron met a trestled bridge.
Its lanes were like vines sprouting together.
Men and women were rolling apples down the lanes.
Each apple was a soul.
They were soul-races; which soul would be the fastest
To get to the other side?