With dread, I saw
A thistle bush, almost my height
And almost fully wilted,
Letting wisps of seed
Drift away on a late summer breeze.
An ill omen in reverse, a memory
Of bitter thorns and bitter words
Shared from mother to daughter,
And daughter again.
My mother professed,
She ought not have had children.
I wish my mother well.
I wish her many days to meet children,
I will bear who will smile,
Without great bitterness or sorrow.
I wish to be a dandelion,
Hearty and bright,
And not a thistle.