Every summer, the trees have thorns.
The grass and flowers and bushes have thorns.
The brick-wall buildings, the warm concrete,
That mud puddle by the construction site—
All these things have thorns.
A bottle of soda left out to bake
May have a thorn or two.
I think I’ve even seen a few
Protruding from a chicken bone
Peeking out of a garbage can.
A thorn here, a thorn there.
Thousands of them float around in the air!
On the window, on the wall—
There’s even thorns inside.
I’ve got nowhere to hide!
Every place is a potential prick;
Even the soft clouds above have thorns.
Even the invisible stars of day!
Everything, everyone, everywhere—
All I see are thorns.
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