Oh, how I adore thee.
I love thee for thy climbing & curling green gorgeousness.
I hath a weakness… nay, a fetish for thee.
Thou bringest out mine inner hobbit.
Thou makest me want to run bare footed… feeted… naked toe-ed through The Shire with a crown of golden daisies atop mine head.
When I seeth how thy green tresses gracefully envelop a lovely New England cottage, I can no longer suppress mine inner Briar Rose (that wouldst be Sleeping Beauty to you, ignorant ones). I want to throw open the shutters and shake out the rugs. I want to sing me a merry song whilst I work.
How thou doth vexeth mine soul.
I seeth thee and I desireth to have coffee and cakes on the patio with friends so deareth to mine heart. I want to sit with a wide-brimmed hat perched on mine head, and sippeth mine coffee whilst speaking of gossip, and Prada, and Johnny Depp with mine darling truffles.
But no such friends are neareth to me.
Nor mine beloved ivy.
I shall linger here no longer.
But know this, sweet ivy. I shall forevermore remain obsessed with thee. And though I canst notteth run mine fingers through thy green tresses, I shall love thee from afar… whilst sitting next to mine cactus.
Thy beauty is out of mine reacheth.