Poison Oak
By Prairie Schooner
This fallow acre lapsed to weed,
Unturned beneath the sun,
Is nourishing a wilder seed
Domestic furrows shun.
And yet, in the forsaken field,
When ruined leaves are black,
The chosen harvest may but yield
A thin smoke in its track.
I’d rather like lost acres go
With bitter weeds to bed
Or flaunting in the frost fires show
How poison oak turns red!
Copyright © by the owner.