Poison ivy, not yet out in leaves, has still broken out on me.
Razed mountains on contaminated wrists and hands.
Just a touch or two, from touching black-coarse-hair-vines gripping pines.
The sweetgums the landowner hates. The fallen colors her husband favors.

And I, bills to pay, and no good not green place to hide.
The destiny of life to be buried in, under, beneath other heavy life.
Weighted with the weight of water. Heavily doused by a rain
dry creek bed awake again sort of winter.
To taunt us back into another dry summer.
Itching beneath cracked leather gloves already,
cracked burnt uprising textured leather hands are steady.
At least for now, they are steady. And the twisted green tips
on the ends of poisoned twiggy whips, are not yet out.

But ready.