There's something quite creepy about ivy
that makes it act all too alivey:
the slithering mass of it climbs up your house
and clings to your stone or your brick;
its feet are like glue and its stalk grows as thick
as a snake in your garden that's swallowed a mouse.
On the ground, I suppose, the plant's not such a pest
but when it climbs, my loathing cannot be expressed.
No, I'm never afraid to assert my opinion
about this green menace of the vast plant dominion:
though some people say that the vine has its worth,
I'd just as soon see it removed from the earth!
Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Poems