Listening to thistles

See the dandelions pose, their
dappled shadows spiked with
promises of war
between staying still and
stumbling further, for more.

Onely, singular
knee-high boy
all silly and forlorn,
teeth full of whistles and thorns.
Tempted by sharp blossoms
that gorge on the rose roots
to stab a fingertip and fall sleepily.
A representation of my child-shape,
he feeds me thistles; learn to listen
and it won't prick so deeply.

Wild wit,
never heard of it.

Leaking through burr-bearing
pathways, faster than the rain.
I imagined flashbacks to be dry,
but 'been proven wrong again.


Nesting in an average, unpoetic corner of
standard, uncorrected folds of thought;

collection of mutterings that are unstrung,
too brittle for clutching, too cold to be caught.

AN: temporary return from writer's block/nonspecific laziness/exam combo thing, comments appreciated! :-D