Thistles

          You are all the same to us,

solitary, standing above us, planning

your silly lives. . . . Louise Glück

You can argue the finer points

of hoe or hand trowel, thrust

reluctant fingers into

our prickly intentions

and pull,

but this means nothing to us.

You seek solace in the docile flowers,

the whispers of the wood violet,

the reverie of roses,

the sunflowers hanging guilty heads

burdened

by future generations;

but we will not be silenced. We are blue

voices repeated, rising: from

the last white taproot, from

each silky seed thumbing

a ride

on the wind.

Blind weeders of tame gardens,

you are all the same to us.  

We are savage daughters of the

mother: we crowd the columbine,

bite bare ankles, tangle your thyme.

We wear purple. 

You are never safe

from our sharp critique.

This poem first appeared in  Full of Crow, June 2009.