Thrashers and cardinals dart
   through the brush, through
the season. Trees begin their
   letting go as we walk

along the Depot Trail.
   Bikers and runners pass like pearls
stringing us to this wild
   chandelier of a plant—

magenta stalks, purple-black berries.
   Cartoonish. Overripe.
Poke salad, you call it. Toxic.
   Yet you crush a few

between your fingers,
   streak them under your eyes
like war paint. A boy again,
   unafraid.

For the rest of the day I live
   inside that gesture, a small delight
in the age of grief.
   Runners waving

good morning, a fawn
   feeding in the woods, a black cat
crossing the path.
   Weed of old spells

and sweet poison
   keeps me from myself,
from the thing that calls me
   to sorrow.

I must have called to it once,
   to its yellowing
heart-shaped leaves,
   and it remembered.