thistle collector

I am a thistle collector
from roadsides and spare blocks

I pull

roots pale bent fingers

released from soil

as I tug

stalk shapes indent pink on my skin

fingernails stained green

sand clings as if it owns me

aphids smudged black on my breast

snails will be slime bliss bombs for my ducks

I carry thistles in my harvesters arms

smell a cooking stew

someone is using my mother's recipe

the postie skids to give way

handy man paints pickets retain the dream

at the curb side café

morning coffee drinkers

pause

mid sip

I am the thistle collector

my bunch of yellow flowers

nod with every step

and a trail of white seed heads float behind