Pulling Wild Thistle by Larry Smith

We work for hours

at my son’s house

trimming grass, pulling weeds.

The thistle are taller

than my grandsons

running about the yard

raking leaves, chasing our dog,

bringing us drinks.

Sharp thorns cut

through my gloves,

yet I grip their green stems

near the white roots

and tug them out

one by one.

The boys stand back

as I lay them straight

like fallen troops

drying in noonday sun.

Was it kindness or neglect

that allowed their growth?

Am I destroyer or savior

killing what’s wild

in the name of order?

The palms of my hands

will sting with my deeds

for hours.