A grove of dark grey trunks
twirl skyward
through chill December air 

bring the Widow Wyile
to a halt mid-
saunter so she
may fully behold
their curvaceous splendour
amid the stillness of snow 

flakes calmly cloak
branches     twigs
that spiral up and out
their pinnate leaves long
dropped but their fruits
linger at the tips
in fuzzy drupes
splendid purplish
panicles
deep crimson cones
capped in a delicate
accumulation of wondrous
white crystal geometry 

henceforth
all sumacs call her attention
she studies their trunks
though not all
swirl like loose
corkscrews bedecked
with elven velour caps
hairy red berried medicine
her childhood misprision
that sumac is poison
finally fully gone*

*Note: though the white berried kind is! But it grows in other climes.