The Thistle

I remember the thistle there,
You pointed on a small path,
Fresh air as if after a bath,
Carried early summer over there.
You showed me the flower,
Telling me the name quietly,
Sweet breeze passed gently by,
We wanted to stay longer,
But spoke fewer still,
Only the thistle swaying,
Swinging in that dreamy morning.

by Tokiko Iwamoto

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