Sow Thistle

Some days the
things that are
always here
are more here
than before.

A sow thistle
in a light wind plays
green flute
at the bottom of a
sun shaft

on the dirt
beside the driveway
between trash cans
it glows and gyrates

through an afternoon blight
of cottonwood seeds.
Miles from their source,
their cotillions descend
settle, deflate, disappear
in the tiny cracks between
gravel and grass while

the solo weed
descants
within a dazzling plethora

-Anita Sullivan

I’m a poet and essayist who writes from my experiences in the natural world. I live and work, garden and explore, in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. I’ve published 4 essay collections, one full length volume of poems and two poetry chapbooks. My website is www.anitasullivan.org

1 Comment

  1. How lovely to meet another Willamette poet in these pages! Thanks for this poem, Anita. The sow thistle playing green flute at the bottom of a sunshaft is such a striking image. Those few words called into being the mood of an afternoon.

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