Thorns

I snag on things;
Like the wind blown bags
In the crooked fingers
Of winter trees
Or wool on a cold sheep’s back
Clutched at by hungry thorns
Or seaweed dashed and left dangling
By eddying currents
Against diamond sharp cliffs.

I try to flow smoothly in the river of people
But catch my sleeve on the eyeglass temple
Turning temporarily blind
And stumble on the only pebble for miles around;
My ankles, wrists and elbows take the brunt
And will ache for generations
As each day drips by
With sand glass monotony.

I am coarse paper never rubbed smooth
By constant, repeated contact
With soft petals or scented hankies,
Destined to raise hackles
Wherever I go.

F. Kate Langan lives in a cottage in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, with her husband and two cats, where she writes poetry and re-canes chairs.