Thistle, hearty flower,
Resilient beyond end,
You seem to be destroyed at times
But still come back again
Your armor is protective,
A painful prick you’ll give
Because that is what you have learned
You must still do to live
Your tall, strong, slender stems and stalks
One may cut down quite low
But rooted deep within rich soil
You never cease to grow
A thousand times life knocks you down
A thousand times returning
Each time stronger than the last
The fire within you burning
Beyond the tough and prickly mail
That keeps you safe from harm
Lies a lovely, soft, sweet bloom
With never ending charm
It takes years to coax you out
And see you trust the sun
Despite the turmoil life’s sent your way
Despite all that’s been done
You somehow find a way to bloom
In ways that all can view
But who can find a way to reach
Across the prickled dew?
Past protective armaments
To touch your tender flower
It takes a certain highland soul
Armed with a gentle power.
Thistle, tender blossom soft
Your heart is opening now
To only one who’s brave enough
And who you will allow.
The thistle is the national flower of Scotland.
But it’s a weed…
Yes, but it’s a weed that reportedly saved my kilt wearing ancestors from invading Viking hoards at some point and it’s a pretty weed.
So why write about a pretty weed?
Because I find it botanically fascinating, and I like the metaphor.
Don’t judge me.