Carolina Thistle
I find the prickly foliage kindred, the thistle
in its proliferating. My brittle thoughts
inadequate at grief’s threshold, I let spines
grow unhindered from the base floret
by the porch where I can see the plant,
not anticipating, exactly, what I want.
I know the purplish flowers go to seed,
fritillaries love its nectar, monarchs might
flock, but I understand the thistle’s
offering best when wiry stems unclasp,
releasing downy wisps to sail on breezes.
When a hummingbird’s wing cuts the air
with a whir, late migration, I look up.
All I can picture is my mother’s white
hair barely covering her skull, a fine tonsure.
What is breath but everything? Then suddenly:
brilliance, goldfinches flashing on spent
blooms in the breeze, feasting. Why can’t
we go like that? Rollicking and sated,
gorgeous, unexpected guests as wind
scatters our tendrils behind like promises,
the only spreading: more flowers.
ELINOR ANN WALKER holds a Ph.D. in English from the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and prefers to write outside. Read more.