




a dark cloud blocks
the Summer sunset,
but light won’t be pent.

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.

its red cap
gives the mushroom away,
hiding in leaf litter.

the trail is straight;
the creek meanders —
trail feet — creek mind.