Morning Thanks--a poem about thistles

It begins with the subject unnamed. But there's no mystery here, because Maxine Kumin reveals all in the title: "Why There Always Be Thistle." 

Sheep will not eat it
nor horses nor cattle
unless they are starving.
Unchecked, it will sprawl over
pasture and meadow
choking the sweet grass
defeating the clover
until you are driven
to take arms against it
but if unthinking
you grasp it barehanded
you will need tweezers
to pick out the stickers.

The poem gallops along--hear it?--at the oh-so-familiar cadence of some children's rhyme, which it is, in many ways, although its painful subject matter can truly be appreciated only by an adult with dirty hands. If there were a few lapses in that silly beat, we'd call it doggerel--and it is, after a fashion, because Ms. Kumin doesn't want to be taken too seriously. Hop on for another ride.

Outlawed in most Northern

states of the Union
still it jumps borders.
Its taproot runs deeper
than underground rivers
and once it's been severed
by breadknife or shovel
—two popular methods
employed by the desperate—
the bits that remain will
spring up like dragons' teeth
a field full of soldiers
their spines at the ready.

Really, thistles will kill you if you let them, so the rhythms--silly as can be--won't let you take them too seriously. Then again, you can't be fatalistic about 'em; you got to fight or they'll take over the world. But neither can you march out to back thinking you're William the Conquerer. We're stuck with 'em.

Bright little bursts of

chrome yellow explode from
the thistle in autumn
when goldfinches gorge on
the seeds of its flower.
The ones left uneaten
dry up and pop open
and parachutes carry
their procreant power
to disparate venues
in each hemisphere
which is why there will always
be thistle next year.

Near the end, her diction gets a little fancy, but then she doesn't try to cute with the perennial curse we all know we have. 

For most of my life I've taught lit, but don't ask me to define what poetry is. There's nothing profound here, nothing angelic or other-worldly, nothing that will forever leave a mark.

All this little jingle does is help us see. And that's a blessing.

This morning--or any--I refuse to be thankful for thistles, but I am grateful to Maxine Kumin for the smile this backyard tribute has kindly left behind. 

______________________ 

Maxine Kumin's "Why There Will Always Be Thistles" was yesterday's feature poem on Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac.