We work for hours <br />at my son’s house <br />trimming grass, pulling weeds. <br />The thistle are taller <br />than my grandsons <br />running about the yard <br />raking leaves, chasing our dog, <br />bringing us drinks. <br /> <br />Sharp thorns cut <br />through my gloves, <br />yet I grip their green stems <br />near the white roots <br />and tug them out <br />one by one. <br />The boys stand back <br />as I lay them straight <br />like fallen troops <br />drying in noonday sun. <br /> <br />Was it kindness or neglect <br />that allowed their growth? <br />Am I destroyer or savior <br />killing what’s wild <br />in the name of order? <br />The palms of my hands <br />will sting with my deeds <br />for hours.<br /><br />Larry Smith<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pulling-wild-thistle/
