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.

Two Sisters

We came from the same womb, the same warm dark place, tucked safely inside with the others. We wait until the last full moon of the planting month, when the killing frosts are no longer a threat before we push through the rich layer of that which separates here from there.

All of we sisters quiver and reach towards the warm sun rising high above, following from east to west, eager to unfold and liberate beauty from within round, swollen buds. The others – tall, slender shoots – come, rush, tower over us, boasting frilly lavender, wine, yellow and white frocks that crumple and wither before us.

We take turns showing our faces – unmistakable papery pink petals surround an innocent, deep crown of purple seeds known to bring sleep and cast a spell on the weak. The spirit of beauty and truth intoxicates those of a divine spark.

When the time is right, my sister and I follow the others, whose spotted silken petals lay still in garden grasses beside enduring hemlock.

We wait and watch the other unravel undying pinkness. Quiet winds urge us to show our faces, which makes the gardener weep. She comes out once and again to watch us and to wait.

After the night and before the day, my sister and I make the last gesture of completeness. In all of our glory, we – two sisters of the earth womb, follow the sun and beguile young men with potent seeds and entice old women to cut for her table – have arrived. We sisters collect dew and call upon butterflies. We watch the others come and go before us and we watch the others wait in bud for our passing. Finally, in one sweet, elusive moment, our decaying petals will lie on the garden floor, proclaiming our memory and lingering on the next miracle.