Milk Thistle Season by Margaret King

When we were young

We’d call them “wishes,”

Gathering thistle seeds

Blowing skyward

“If it hits the ground, your wish won’t come true!”

And we’d run away as fast as we could

So as not to see our wishes fall back down to earth

Hoping they’d ascend all the way to the clouds

It never occurred to us

That coming back down like deflating balloons

Is what they were designed to do

That taking firm root in some unexpected place

Stubbornly growing strong and thorned from wispy fluff

To be favored by bumblebees in August

And wishful children in September

Was better than reaching heaven.

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Margaret King lives in Wisconsin, and loves coffee, tai chi, and writing. She is the author of the poetry collection Isthmus. @Indreni