Jewelweed   Our forest isn't much for rattlesnakes,  or even copperheads, their patterned backs    red diamonds beneath last autumn's leaves. It's small things here that get you: devil's thorn raking bare flesh, deer ticks or Lenten rose, and poison ivy clambers every patch along the meadow's edge. I pull by hand thin running stems wherever they invade, careful to keep the leaftips from my skin. This spring our rains have favored jewelweed whose coral blossoms draw the rubythroats. I leave a few to grow since their juice makes a balm for poison ivy, which relieves the subtle burning if applied within a quarter hour. Knowing this, Baird planned, at nine, immunity from more attacks of blistering, and taking off his clothes rubbed poison ivy everywhere. He'd made a poultice, just in case, but could not match the poison to its antidote. Forlorn, confessed and bathed, at dinner he'd concede unwisdom, but years later, he still notes that even well-planned traumas test belief but partial cures flourish near every grief. W.F.Lantry If you've any comments on this poem, W.F.Lantry would be pleased to hear from you.