Thistle Seed
 
Off the corner of the cabin,
a large stand of thistle has gone
to seed
 
and when the wind blows,
downy heads explode
in an exclamation of joy.
Oh, what can they say to a world
that browns a bit more each day?
 
And how will they pray?
Will their gossamer souls sing in first light,
their praise growing lighter and lighter
as filaments come together
into a single cloud of witnesses who cry
Now, Lord!

Could I join them?
My bones catching the wind
like silken threads,
like hundreds of hollow reeds thrust
into the updraft.
Would I find the air a kinder home,
the yoke of all my earthly expectations
released?
 
All summer long,
the happy flowers have opened themselves
to birds and bees, but today
they are colorless corpses.
 
I reach for a thistle seed,
but it will not be held.
Moment by moment, the dead rise
from the ash heap.