18
PICKING THISTLES
Paxton Schmitz
I smell a garden, A carefully cultivated Collection of blossoms, In the tiny purple petals of A thistle’s flower. I feel the prickle of sharp stings On small bare feet As I run, So young, I have a hard time remembering my own age. I say “young.” Do I mean seven or fifteen? Through the fenced-in backyard. The sky’s backdrop a dark wood. I hear the wind whispering Through the branches of trees So much older than me. That breeze carries along its breath Floating seeds that Land and dig and root and grow. Disrupt the pristine lawn. My father sends me out With a bucket, some gloves.
