Common Thistles

I took their pictures 
all summer long—
knee-high, chest-high,
taller than me. From a distance,
they posed as sapling firs
nestled in a shadowy wedge
of unused parkland
between a cedar
and a gray suburban fence.
Up close—pliant green trunks,
spiky leaves with a hint 
of silver sheen, purple blossoms
larger than my knuckles
serving bumblebees,
honey bees, yellow jackets
sipping nectar
but spreading no pollen.
When I left on vacation,
my cellphone held a gallery 
of thistles like grandchildren
I might have shown William Blake, 
who argued out loud
with a thistle,
seeing a hectoring old man
in his “inward eye.”
I’m the old man here,
surveying a muddy waste
latticed by broken stalks,
my inner eye shrouded 
by grief for more
than my brood of giant weeds 
mowed down while I 
took in the sights back east.
They’ll come back.
Someday, I won’t.

PAUL TELLES

Paul Telles is a former journalist and lifelong reader of poetry who thinks retirement is a self-funded writing fellowship. His poems have appeared in Alaska Quarterly Review, Book of Matches, Inflectionist Review, BoomerLitMag, and other publications. He received his MFA from Pacific University in January 2024. Many of his best friends are children and trees.