Thistle, you look like another
of evolution’s jokes, impossible
as a great blue heron seems
impossible, though you both
are brilliant survivors.
Still, mixed metaphor,
it looks like someone
hung you all over with
shaving brushes nobody
soft-handed could wield,
then loaded one of those
salad shooters they
used to hawk on TV
and fired green sickles
and scimitars at you,
until, sentry at my door,
you look like a gallowglass
loyal to no one but your own
stickle-backed containment.
I dubbed you Captain Barfoot,
though I know from long
acquaintance that a change
of air will turn you to a mentor
white and silken, proof
that the pilgrim in us all
must cede his spines
and hackers to endure.