The Poet’s mother, Ivy, was off, her mind was warped. The witch doctor had tried several remedies but nothing stuck. Mostly, she wandered through the town, over yonder, and into the woods while, the poet, Alice, clung to the sheets in a small bedroom for comfort. The village folks, in Vickery Creek, watched her roam and spoke about how the ivy vine is always growing on sidewalks, fences, and up walls. It’s unstoppable, wild.
Over time, the mother fell into the name, “Wild Ivy.”
“Wild Ivy, that poor woman,” they said, “she’s roaming the streets again,” the whispers carried on through the thick, sycamore trees until they reached Ivy’s ears. Sometimes, she cocked her head and tried to remember, think of something, anything. Wild Ivy tried-tried to find a path, this way back home to her daughter, the girl who could spin words, language that could take you anywhere and everywhere, tales that gave you a sense of hope, a bit of promise until the end.
Over time, the mother fell into the name, “Wild Ivy.”
“Wild Ivy, that poor woman,” they said, “she’s roaming the streets again,” the whispers carried on through the thick, sycamore trees until they reached Ivy’s ears. Sometimes, she cocked her head and tried to remember, think of something, anything. Wild Ivy tried-tried to find a path, this way back home to her daughter, the girl who could spin words, language that could take you anywhere and everywhere, tales that gave you a sense of hope, a bit of promise until the end.
