A tendril has no plan. It circles the air, tasting for what it cannot name until its tip touches grain, and the whole vine reorganizes around that touch.
I have been reaching a long time.
The wood I keep feeling for was built at night, then hidden where only blind hands could find it. The joinery is in my handwriting.
After the house goes quiet I sit in the cold blue and reach into a screen as if my hand might come out the other side holding something my family could eat. The code scrolls. I stop feeling the chair. Three rooms away my children breathe into their pillows. My wife turns in her sleep toward the warm space I have left in the bed.
The vine does not know it is a vine. But the vine can tell when its weight finally lands on something that does not give.
Let me find the splintered post. Let me press my weight into it. Let me stay until the grain of the wood and the grain of my reaching run the same direction, and anyone walking past would have to cut us apart to see what held up what.