Flower Gift
I do not send a rose now to my sweet one,
It's scent is dulled beside her heady musk
Her petals, parted pink are sweeter, softer -
This sculpted bloom compared mere wizened husk
A thistle, nature's strangeness, is my gift now
So spikey, such a challenge as you see
Yet strong and everlasting
And downy at its finish
True beauty here in essence, this to me.