Thorn

Knotted yourself into a thicket, didn’t you?

How can you stand up now, you old thing? Half your limbs are broken in twisted splinters. Leaves dried out already, and it has only been a few days since you planted your face to the ground. Didn't look right. Looked apocalyptic and all… No offspring present; not ever. Useless fruit; spotted and shriveled and obviously sterile.  Took up nearly two gallons of gas and some autumn hours to chop you up. Hell, your trunk was nearly hollow, too! Tough old wood. Guess that's what kept you up all these years. What a mess.

Damn it. Pricked me with one of your thorns, did you? Right through the leather glove. Like I had anything to do with what happened? I wasn't even here when you warped in that storm, so stab me all you want, you crabby old thing. That’s fine with me. Stab all the way to the bone if that’s…

Fine. 

Wet, shredded wood littering the thin grass. Breathed enough gas fumes and burnt oil to shrivel my lungs. Even the chain steamed up. Some things refuse to break up into its elements. It's against the will of the living to break down at all. Entropy is for the dead. I get it. Sorry what happened...

Drew some blood where you stabbed. Stop every so often to rub out the sore. Did everything to keep you buoyant, so you’re a bit misguided by the heat of my flesh. Admired every damn clutch of white you somehow blossomed. Drew inspiration from your strange, bitter fruit; seemed alien for a thorn tree to bare any kind of fruit. If you could call it that. How the hell your seed and manna could have ever bred any forest or fed any creature is beyond me. Look at that pile of shrill, prickly limbs... What kept you up? Was it just me?

Proud to share my pictures and my poems and my love for native things – stirred by you and your mysterious origin. Always got the feeling that you were left here by previous owners, and not planted. Planted a dozen trees and perennials around you myself. You were just there, like a permanent root; like a cyclical hologram of some ancient stretch. An ugly, thorny, flowering perfection...a delicate old Hoosier. I was in awe, if that's the right word.

You must’ve been a billion years old. You looked it. Must’ve survived some bad winters, too. Survived that drought a couple of years ago; better than any other tree on the property. Somehow defied that infernal hell, growing new shoots with every crack in the bark despite your hollowed bones.

Well, you’re gone. I’m still here; still staring down at your bed of upturned, orange clay. Bought another Hawthorn the other day from a nursery. Took a pic of you to match up. They said they have one similar, probably sturdier, certainly better, and guaranteed hybridized against disease.

Thinking it’ll go right here. But I got to tell ya… I think it’s strange to go out of my way to plant thorns. I'd rather they have, I don't know...planted themselves like you had done, unhybridized and all.