Had I an acre of ground to hedge,

I'd line the line along the road

Not with boxwood, and not ledge,

But barberry, slow to be trued

By clipping its thicket to shape.

It comes up dense, a brittle bush,

Greens with leaves small as hope,

And reddens in an autumnal wash

Half bronze that no one notices

Until November. But that sour

Bite of and spit out berries

In the mouth I'd grow a hedge for.