Green Teasel

Walking along a country lane the other day, I noticed a tall green spiky plant and realised it was newly-grown teasel. 

Had I ever noticed this before? No, I didn’t believe I had. 

Ask me to describe teasel and I would say it was dry, brown, spiky, sharp. It endures. There is a battalion of it in one of the fields I regularly pass; I went there to take the comparison photo. The spikes have easily survived an unsheltered winter. Teasel is durable. Steadfast. Cheerful. All things I admire.

I ran my fingers along the heads of the new teasels. They were soft. Pliable. Pleasing to the touch. But they will be sharp and dry by winter.

When I see them then, on a cold December morning, shimmering with frost, I will remember how they once were. And I will remember them when I find myself being sharp, inflexible, dry. Unlike the teasel, I can bend and soften and return to the green exuberance of my youth. And I shall.

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