Faces in the Thistles

We who were young
have shed countless beards:

white hairs of thistles
caught in the wind’s tug-of-war

we fight not to let go
but in a sudden gust
are gone.

When our steel towers fall

we will seed
by the magic of thistledown

where the wild wind whispers
in the ears of fleece:

ancestors all.

Thistles IV

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