In Memory of Warren Starke (1939-1992)

The Vine Spring, 1993 After the service, back at the house,  someone asked about the vine  on the front fence. You remember, the one  I always nagged you  to dig up and out and gone  because the thick dead trails  of thin gray string made such a mess  after the blooms stopped and I was tired of cleaning the fence.  You always refused,  saying--approval in your voice--  the vine paid its way in blossom time. Disinterested, I regarded  the small flowers  in the mass of crawling vine and  tried to give it a name.  I couldn't. Later, someone exclaimed,  "Look!  A hummingbird vine!"  and moved to get a closer look.  In the afterfuneral smalltalk, two visitors  recalled childhood memories  richly flavored with such a vine.  To a chorus of startmesome, I promised.

Today, for the second year  I've known the name,  I pulled the gray tendrils off the fence  and I thought of you. And, with pleasure, I thought of  the perfect, five-pointed blossoms unpretentious scarlet stars soon to appear summer's bright red dots punctuating the delicate, dark green traceries  cascading, looping from post to post  hiding the ugly wire fence.