Cactus Poem by Peter Black

Yellow flowers with petals that slip
Up with a sheen like four spread yellow lips,
For a day or night is all before gone.
They swelter and purse under the noon sun;
Turn to white fur atop the cacti meat,
Whose thorns are aimed defense, projected; reach
To attack what is foolishly close.
Those needles leave holes in my soles,
Walking in tall grass, rather than shoed,
I used to cry when I was struck through;
But when they bite me now I yawn,
And bend my knees, pull: dislodged,
The barbs; do not feel the shot,
Happy to see the cactus growing tall.