The Orchards Poetry Journal

Wherever thistles wither, little knotsare knuckled, blossoms rot, leaf and stem.Stitches loosen at a dress’s hemwhile a mother jangles thimbles in her pockets. The myriad ways to savor a Highland Scotch:this churning storm cloud; the annoying friendtwisting in one’s chest; the scar beginningto itch again, with a picture yellowing in its locket. A melody wafts…