“An ode to poison ivy”

Oh wily vine in dappled glen,  
With leaves of three, you beckon then—  
A shimmer bright in emerald dusk,  
A siren robed in woodland musk.  

You twine along the mossy ground,  
Or climb the oak without a sound,  
Your crimson blush in autumn’s light,  
A final flare before the night.  

Beware, your touch is sly and fleet—  
A gentle brush, a stinging heat—  
You mark, unseen, the wanderer’s arm  
With memory dressed as gentle harm.  

Yet, in your place amid the shade,  
The wild grows fierce, the timid fade;  
You shelter eggs and beetle’s wing,  
You hold the earth in velvet spring.  

To curse your rash is easy, true,  
But all is wild, and wild is you—  
A lesson tucked in leaf’s disguise,  
To see, respect, and recognize.  

So here’s to you, sly summer’s art,  
A humble ode from wary heart;  
For beauty’s touch may come with cost—  
In forest deep, not all is lost.

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