Louise Erdrich says in her poem, “Thistles”:
“under loss and under hard words,
under steamrollers
under your heart,
it doesn’t matter. They can live forever.”
I think there are some feelings that are like thistles, that’s why Erdrich’s poem and the thistles along the sidewalk speak to me like an old friend as I ponder how some losses, some griefs, some pointy bits of the past never do entirely smooth over or disappear.
They simply die back for a while, and you think they are gone. Then you’re innocently snapping a photo, minding your own business, and they come back—sharp as ever.
But they are beautiful, thistles are. They endure for a reason.
You can read her whole gorgeous poem here:
http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2007%2F06%2F22
eeo 