Thorned limbs catch me in a vicious embrace. One hundred thorns for each small cluster of simple blood-red blossoms.
Frustrated, I remove those thorny canes, avert my eyes from the tiny fallen flowers, and begin excavations.
But you hold fast to the earth. You hold fast.
I sit beside you, then with you.
My own thorns and flowers — one hundred thorns for each small cluster of simple blossoms — become present.
I sigh, replace the soil, and clear the remaining weeds from your base.