Is young
and touchy; it is
All barb
and bristle,
Threatening
to wield
Its green,
jagged armament
Against the
whole field.
Butterflies
will dare
Nonetheless
to lay their eggs
In that
angle where
The leaf
meets the stem,
So that
ants or browsing cows
Cannot
trouble them.
Summer will
grow old
As will the
thistle, letting
A clenched
bloom unfold
To which
the small hum
Of bee
wings and the flash of
Goldfinch
wings will come,
Till its
purple crown
Blanches,
and the breezes strew
The whole
field with down.
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