The Thistle Within

I watched and waited patiently for your arrival. I pretended not to fret, but deep inside I was much too anxious. What good would it do to pressure you? Everything comes in its own time and you are without exception.


I often wonder what draws me to you. Although you are fair to behold and I admire you in your prickliness, I refrain from touching you. Perhaps it is the anticipation of your explosion into fullness or maybe it is your unwavering confidence. I will not allow myself to dwell on your exquisite beauty as you reign over the others who have withered around you, becoming shadows of their prime.

When you emerge in your perfect roundness of deep violet, I blush in your presence. I would approach if I dare be so bold. I admire the honeybee that crawls uninhibited over your untamed perfection and I give thanks for the sharp spines, which guard you from greedy hands.

When the bee passes you by, I stop and think about touching you. The spikes have softened and your color fades, but I remain true. I praise your wisdom, which replaces vibrant loveliness. I honor you, as you remain powerful yet still over the others who bow to you in death as they did in life.