In semblance of brittleness it stands
still
unbowed, dry
reedy rod rising
to burry crown revealing nothing
even to breezes that demand
it speak forth its cadence of parched crackles

still it stands
confronting crisp winter
staring in its bleak eye the season
bent on bringing down lesser, larger limbs
unfit to bear the strain of snow

still rigid
unhostile in plain acceptance—
            this is being
            this is nothing more than being—
its implied dare
            reach, seize, snap
hints at the plunderer’s fate
the bloodied hands
forced open in the attack

– Katy Scrogin

Author’s Note: The poem emerged out of a workshop sponsored by the Poetry Foundation and Chicago’s Lurie Garden. We were studying how the garden changed over the course of the year, and I was taken in by the plant know as the rattlesnake master. Even in the midst of what we think of as a dead season, it exuded a very clear sense of inviolability and dignity.