On the claws of my thornbush
three woollen twists mark the passage
of careless walkers.
I expect to see them all winter through,
fading slowly, matting in the rain,
returning to their flocked origin.
Next Spring, a bird, more careful,
will pass through the bush,
avoiding thorns, gathering these
fleecy fragments for a new nest.
Black thorns, freed of the winter harvest,
will protect white blossom, shield new leaf.