No-One Left to Prick

Ah, the steady cactus, a proud and prickly thing…
Nowhere else have I seen such a stubborn specimen.
She could wrestle chill or flame, withstand the harshest gale.
Even then, she’ll bounce right back and live to tell the tale.

She squats upon a windowsill, her spines pinching the sky.
Her pot’s been twice replaced while languid days have lumbered by.
And nothing ever changes much for her tidy, simple life –
Nothing but the view; concrete buildings, growing rife.

I think of arid climates, scorching suns and rainless slaughter –
The tribulations hard endured for the slightest hint of water.
And how the cactus came to be, evolving in dessication…
Now, we could learn a thing or two from cacti’s acclimation.

The air is growing tighter now, to view it in reflection.
A climate spurred by passing cars and brooding insurrection.
One day soon, it may be that the desert starts to spread –
Leaving nature weeding through the cracks left in our stead.

Ah, the steady cactus, I find solace in her power –
A stranger in our choking land of progress by the hour.
In the end, I’m sure my cactus will find some way to stick –
A monument of conservation… with no-one left to prick.