The Accidental Prickle

I touched the pot by mistake

—a quick slip, not paying

attention—

then felt it: a sharp prick

right through my fingerpad,

a tiny point of fire.

A drop of blood spread slow,

slow on the cactus green,

bright against the dull.

How it stands, so still,

so stubborn in that pot,

arms armed with quiet knives.

The spine, awkward and new,

a whisper of defense,

pain that teaches persistence.