Poof
we stop by a thistle bush on the winding
little path up from the seashore.
we look at its opened flowers and at
its jagged bud pods shut tight,
bulging out, robed with thorns,
aching to open up with a
poof
revealing a tender tufting crown of
a hundred tiny soft bright purple petals
you’d never know were huddling inside.
later, on the high cliff trail
above the far-off grumble and hiss
of the sea chorus,
our eyes meet and our hands
find their way to each other
and this old heart
inside me is
a thistle bud about to go
poof
