Thistle

When I ran to you, Expecting open arms and warm tea, I got sour rind and sop When I ambled toward you, Bridging bramble toward the sea I stuck only in the stubble, flanked atop
The thistle by the barn rallies its barbs like swords from arid land not wicked, but dry
When I wanted lift, I got stone When I wanted rest, I got din When I wanted cheer, I got cap When I wanted shade, I got cast When I wanted drink, I got dust When I wanted warmth, I got soot When I wanted food, I got swill When I wanted wool, I got thorns