Poison Ivy, I think you know
that you will always be my foe.
I can slice your vine, pal-o-mine,
and still end slathered in calamine.
Because I must haul your corpse away,
and on my gloves your oils will stay —
waiting that unexpecting day
when I scratch some tender bit.
at day’s end,
atop the mountain, clouds
look like snowy peaks.
from mid-bridge,
above the sprawling river:
the city, silent.
its red cap
gives the mushroom away,
hiding in leaf litter.
the trail is straight;
the creek meanders —
trail feet — creek mind.
a dead tree
stands above the living;
it didn’t pace itself.
slender-stalked mushroom
stands straight & tall & still,
but not for long.
sapling grows in boulder,
splitting it in twain;
paper does beat rock.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 