The Briar Speaks

     Her curse was our period of glory.

 

            Everything became so quiet—no galling chatter

 

of humans, no jarring barks      of dogs, not even the buzz of a fly.

 

Only the subtle hum of our parents—sky and earth,

 

stretching      our      verdant vines,            plush flowers,     and

 

                 prickly thorns

 

between      them            endlessly.

 

Oh! And our roses—petals soft as the feathers on a goose—thick as the bark

 

of the old oak,      to speak of their colors does nothing.

 

     How can one explain the shades of sunrise?  Not pink, not  orange

 

but a pool of both.            Fibers reflecting light,      whirling   a

 

                                                                           feral brilliance.

 

After the kingdom re-awakened,

we were once again tamed.  Cut back.

Torn apart.  Thorns carefully discarded.

Thousands of our precious

flowers scattered throughout

the courtyard for the princess’ wedding

day.  Trampled on.   Left to fade.