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.