Lavender probes

a rim of midnight blue,

the tender touch of land and sky

as daylight yields to night.

I am ragged,

like the thistle’s fringe,

so insignificant in this vastness,

yet reaching

for the sinking sun.

And the hem of a robe

sweeps low,

setting the sky on fire.

Setting me on fire.

Like the thistle,

I delight in being small.

Yet seen.

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3 thoughts on “When A Thistle Matters

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