Autumn's uprising through my kitchen window

It was halfway up the pine before I caught sight of it.  
 The eternal vine of weediness where  it should not have been 
but we allowed for its coverage
 and its color.

Masked by bough and the neighbors' more cultivated variety 
now spread more beautiful than a painting on their southern wall, 
where the window should be but never was, 
we always said.

The leafy likeness and almost redness betrayed an ulterior rise to prominence. 
  The covered up wall could be more than happy at its blanket,

but living things fight other living ones to survive.

Would I be in time to pull down the creeping encroachment
 while warmer weather lasts?   
Would I bother  if the sun delayed
 and my tardiness
 burdened it
 into winter. 

  Could the pine forgive me ?

Would I pardon myself at pine's end?