Thistle


A hidden world begins to wake and stretch tender roots
Long dormant in the rich, dark soil of a long winter's sleep
Mother Nature waves her magic wand across the barren land
Gently stirring life that will soon be burst from the sleepy earth
As the first leaves unfurl into the sunlit brae
Strong blasts of cold wind whip across the loch
Blowing over the moors, battering the fragile new growth
Staunch are the survivors; the ones who do not break or freeze
Thorns that are worn as protection and disguise the full beauty
Serving as something of a cocoon
Sunshine birthing vibrant purple, fragrant plumes
An amethyst-hued sea of floral waves swaying in the gentle breeze
Honey bees hover and buzz - yellow and black jackets
Sticky with precious nectar collected for their queen
Whoosh of a wing as a tiny bird plucks a nymph from a web
A symphony of life woven together
Soon, clouds linger in the sky giving way to autumn rain showers
Royal blooms begin to fold, glorious color fading to gray
Brittle, wilted stems and seeds fall to earth, pummeled by cold rain
Life comes full circle to start anew at this ending
Once again, the bleak winter moor lies in deep slumber
Beautiful in its simple complexity
For without this time of rest and renewal, rebirth could not occur
No living thing has the energy to sustain its full expression forever
A mere mortal whose regeneration is much slower but just as sure
Accepting the cadence of one's life, as time is simply change
Growing from fresh, spring immaturity, radiant summer of full bloom
Reflecting in fall's transition and glory of winter's wisdom

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