Thistle
you were born to twist
a crown of thorns
to cut bending heads
to expose yourself
like liberty standing
above a windy harbor
in open verdigris
a tall fibrous stalk
of hard-wired celery
full of nasty pricks
unfazed by the
arching blackberry canes
the perennials circling the slope
around the old pond floating
with water lilies and geese
you spread
your roots both
wide and deep
choosing arbitrarily
your spot on which
to drink the rain
my wife
would have you gone
but you won’t leave
or be dug out without
a pernicious fight
wares to wares
in june you start
the whole affair
by filling the air
with the power
of your bouquet
of pink flowers
naturally inviting me
from a distance
to take a chance
and come in
to breathe
a closer look
your heaven for bees
your blessing for butterflies
your prayer for all that’s wild
your teasing preludes
to seeds that lift and float
eventually settling down
for another year
despite all i hack
with my machete or
anything else i've tucked
within my pack
i’m fucked and
you’re as certain
as the sun
to perk me up
each time i come back
branching as
you’re inclined to do
into a kind
of toxic femininity
a spiky bush
of untouchable desire
few can resist
making me abandon
in summer’s heat
my 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