The Insolence of Poisoned Ivy
The stench is rising, rising once more.
With no hand to husband these fields,
furrows, now bleach intolerant,
take to their long dormant seed,
revive a reviled germination -
its brute harvest, unduly denied.
In sanguine rain through sag wire,
clod dirt percolates acrid low lying
plumes flag-twisting and spun upon
indolent airs and a languid sun;
the gathering shoots split once
fertile soils by color and stone.
Before this lurching mob of vine,
among this tangled noxious fear,
common aster finds no ground
open to bloom, our wild boundless
bounty sorted, refused, mangled
in white insolence and poisoned ivy.