Pulling Wild Thistle Poem 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.