Wisteria

Lavender blossoms like clusters of grapes smother the fragrance of the conifer’s needles, draping themselves in furious explosions of frilliness, obscuring the once-sharp edges of the silhouette of the tree, the woody vine wrapped so tightly into the joints of the sprawling branches that it has interwoven itself into the trunk, camouflaging itself into the bark shrouding the rich, glowing wood beneath the surface, seizing every branch it can grasp, the supple needles strangled by fresh tendrils of the wisteria choking the life out of the aging cedar. The petals of the flowering parasite were never fully violet, the sun already fading the sad pastel blossoms to ghosts of their initial echo of purple.

In the distance, on the far edge of the fence surrounding the lot, honeysuckle grew wild, the greenery and delicate white and yellow trumpets beginning to open, adding a delicate sweetness to the air beyond the shadow of the wisteria-ruined cedar.

The wisteria crept down the sprawling branches onto the roof, snaking down the crumbling brick wall with a chimney ascending from its center. Shoots ran this way and that off the vine, into the dessicated mortar between the bricks and through the air conditioner balanced in a window frame, threatening to consume everything left on the neglected property.