Woodbine

"Virginia creeper," by some it's called,
Its faint red tinge twines up my oak,
hints, "Autumn's on the way." Appalled,
I deny;" it's nothing but a joke."

Small vine, five leaves, as you display
while tendrils tenacious, clutch my tree,
as you with the season's colors play,
I will, "Oh, summer, stay with me."

Unwelcome in my garden row.
but, by the fence row, different thing.
Where trailing vines can wind and grow,
there, habitat unspoiled reigns king.

My oak, next day, my glance, oblique,
bears vines a bit more florid hue.
and now, with every passing week,
fall's signs step surely into view.

Tall sunflowers reach toward their Master;
thistle blooms change to airborne seeds;
"Good-bye," waves many-colored aster,
Woodbine's a string of ruby beads.