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!

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