Sandspurs

Putting a plank of wood
Into the shed out back,
I noticed a whole garden 

Of sandspurs growing wild

And flourishing:

Those insidious, innocent (at first) little plants 

That sprout tiny green fluffballs

That suddenly turn into razor sharp

Orbs of pain this time of year.

I hate them.

Without thinking, I gave into my hatred

And, bare-handed, tried to rip them out

By the roots, 

Clutching the whole batch

In my left hand. 

In my annoyance with their existence,

I ripped them out,

And in return, 

They stabbed at my fingertips,

Jabbing my skin

With white hot pinches. 

Some of the points broke off, 

Splintering down under my skin.

I tossed them all into the yard waste bin, 

Satisfied that my anger had destroyed them, 

Had been appeased. 

But my self-righteous triumph

Felt thwarted 

By the throbbing in my fingertips. 

Two days later, 

And the splinters will not come out. 

My skin has covered them over

And eventually

A blister will form and harden around the splinter, 

And eventually I'll pull away the dead skin

And the splinter embedded in it

So I can heal. 

But perhaps if I hadn't wanted to pounce
On those thorny orbs so quickly,

Perhaps I might have saved myself 

A lot of pain

If I had just donned a pair of gloves.