We didn’t make the rules:
the rows of words laid down like hammered nails —
they didn’t speak for us.
The thistles lazed in sullen groups,
their heads dipped down, they rolled their eyes,
they crumpled brown and turned to ash,
they crammed their elbows – doorstops – into dirt,
they plead their case.
We would not be the thistles and we would not be the words;
we’d pass them, heads up straight and arms out wide.
We’d walk into the evening, keeping promises and doubts;
we would remember, we would listen, we would understand and know.
The night would seep in quickly – we would seek it, we would stay.