Summer, time again to do battle with
those quilled-head punk-style kings
who march defiantly between wild oat grasses
and tall fescue stems.
The nectar-laden crowns of sun-ray yellow
disguise a more malevolent nature
of these warrior chiefs,
protected by sharp-toothed lances.
I pick and gather the star thistle
to stop the invasion
to prevent the reseeding and the starting anew.
I bend down, clutch the stem
near to the ground with gloved, shielded fingers,
and pull the brown root; short, dry hairs all
up and out, making sure it will not grow again . . .
will not claim dominion over native vegetation.
I feel good ridding the land of this arrogant weed
attacking the legs of farmers and hikers, infesting
the native grasslands, meadows and gardens
of a more approachable world.
Now and then, using gloveless more nimble fingers
I pull and tug each one up by its roots,
and in this hand-to-thistle combat
the dry coarse-ribbed stems occasionally
cut through my vulnerable skin.
The smear of blood across
my farmer’s palm gives me evidence
of their imperial maleficence
and the royal command "Fight On!"
