in the poppy bed
there’s a stubborn weed
i never can seem to kill;
its slender green stem
blends in with the rest
of the flowers,
so i don’t know it’s there
until pain pricks my fingers
and i belatedly see
the thousand tiny dark thorns
all along its branches.
every spring i cut it off again
but i can’t reach the roots below the ground
so again it grows, slim and supple,
just thick enough to twist into a crown.
