Thistle

she was born to twist

a crown of thorns

to cut bending heads

to expose herself

like liberty standing

above a windy harbor

in open verdigris

a tall fibrous stalk

of hard-wired celery

full of nasty pricks

un-phased by the

arching blackberry canes

the perennials circling the slope

around the old pond floating

with water lilies and geese

she spreads

her roots both

wide and deep

choosing arbitrarily

her spot on which

to drink the rain

your wife

would have her gone

but she won’t leave

or be dug out without

a pernicious fight

wares to wares

in june she starts

the whole affair

by filling the air

with the power

of her bouquet

of pink flowers

naturally inviting you

from a distance

to take a chance

and come in

to breathe

a closer look

her heaven for bees

her blessing for butterflies

her prayer for all that’s wild

her teasing preludes

to seeds that lift and float

eventually settling down

for another year

despite all you hack

with your machete or

anything else you've tucked

within your pack

you're fucked and 

she's as certain

as the sun

to perk you up

each time you come back

branching as

she's inclined to do

into a kind

of toxic femininity

a spikey bush

of untouchable desire

few can resist

making you abandon

in summer’s heat

your remarkable vision

for the garden

and say why not

to a plant that like

a certain kind of love

is so painfully ancient

so inconveniently exceptional