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Little Spike
Just a sprout
off his mum.
Needles sharp.
Takes awhile,
years, we're told,
to branch out.
Slow to grow...
Oh, to be
big as mum.
Present Arms
Teenager
saguaro.
Yet unarmed.
Standing tall.
Wants to wave
yet cannot.
Just waiting
for the time
to bear arms.
Old Timer
Years of sun?
Two-forty.
Day is done.
These old bones
sound eerie
in the wind.
Time to rest.
Return to
Mother Earth.
—Mary Lou Griggs