THISTLE
A certain time in the year near May
When all of the flowers open up their eyes
Parting their eyelashes to let the dew of the morning fall
And water the ground underneath their feet of roots
Peonies ceased in baskets made of straw
Weaved by the hands of those experienced
Bougainvillea in shades of pink trail up a wire fence
Spreading, running, skipping between diamond spaces
A little hand brushes against them off to play
Strung on the thinnest stalks that held blades of green grass up
To face the sun and catch a tan
Like popcorn necklaces, each stringed one after the other
Made with the delicate products of the creator
Flowers with petals of fuchsia for the little girls
Birthed from weeds
The ones with the little black seeds
A bracelet around the wrist, and a crown of flora to adorn the temple
Nested in their hair as they danced in the shade
Ring play
The girls looked beautiful and ripe
As for the little women, their time was up
This day was for the next generation to keep
And lock it away within their memories
Their hair now filled with gray but their smiles still bright white
Both thin and plump lips filled with the bliss that accompanied laughter
The firmament is still there
A touch of power and sovereignty
A sprinkle of essence
Royalty at our very core