White Illusion

My fondness for flowers and generally anything in the natural world often lends itself to my writing, especially poetry. While out and about on our dog walk yesterday I was drawn to the beautiful white petals of the nettle on the edge of the woodlands. Thankful for my son's word of caution, I averted the nasty sting of a plant setting strong boundaries for itself. It inspired this poem:

She waits in stillness, masked in white,

A whisper soft, a bloom so bright.

No thorn, no hiss, no warning call—

Just grace that stands ever so tall.

The breeze admires her silken sway,

She summons gently those who stray.

A petal’s lure, a maiden’s guise—

The nettle burns beneath the lies.

The curious reach, the kind bend,

The hand seeks what it can’t defend.

A sting for trust, a mark for grace,

A lesson etched on skin’s embrace.

And still she grows, in shade and sun,

The fairest face—the concealed one.

Not every beauty means you well;

Some saints wear thorns, and some a spell.