Thistles

Thistles
Gently touch one another,
With their fragile fingertips
As they dance in the balmy late-summer breeze.
Scraping a river flowing across the sky,
As they flutter quietly about,
They search longingly for
A pathway once paved towards heaven.
Clad in their royal attire-
Adorned with sparkling dewdrops.
Thistles in all of their glory refract the morning’s sunlight
As they meander indefinitely about the woods.

If any living souls were to open their eyes at daybreak,
Perhaps they would come upon thistles
Light as if carried by air balloons,
Dancing in the slippers of naiads,
Swaying within the late summer’s breeze,
Their laughter would echo within the depths of the forest.
Thistles shall forever be dancing.
Continuously carried away each year
By the arriving of the chill of a winter’s squall.
They would perish beneath the ice and snow,
Finding rebirth in some other place and time.
Though their delicate beauty mesmerizes,
Their evasive spirits shall journey towards the heavens
Forever playing hide-and-go-seek with nature.
Elusive to all who pursue them,
They shall always be carried away by time,
And time is a journey never ending.


Claudia Krizay (schizoclaud)