The vine did what the vine intended –
climbed the oak in summer
then stopped in autumn, slowed
its slither into a stone-still embed
along striations of the tree’s bark –
a subtle camouflaged embrace
so tight the ivy’s reddened leaves
seemed to float, suspended ruses,
spiraling up around the tree’s trunk.
In sly foliage the sleeping poison waits,
spider-like, for determined hands
intent to pull it down, waits for
that one innocent yank to pay
the careless price for backyard beauty.