woodbine twines

woodbine twines climb higher
where white fragrant flowers go
one after the other,
we shall follow in our time

franco worked for the flower venders,
a woman or two, maybe three of them
covered head to foot in coats
and scarves and inane chatter

would be partners with who knows,
always changing faces,
girasole toward the sun,
now fond franco hasn’t reappeared

he the simple helper schlepper
down on luck, getting by in fancy time
when he wasn’t drinking and falling down
eye trouble, though money never a factor

not when there is none
comes and goes as he wished, as others wished,
then went home, somewhere south,
i heard the name of the village last year

have forgotten the village but not Franco,
thought he’d return
but winter’s over
and he remains gone as the snow

city life is seasons,
that visit, then change,
while woodbine is curling
life does rearrange