Prickled Silence

A split stem leans

against the window’s cold glass.

Spines brittle and dry,

forgotten in a cluster of green,

like a secret held too tight.

I water the cracked earth,

watching the sharp angles

fold into quiet stubbornness,

unyielding despite the neglect.

The morning sun hits hard,

yellow and cruel,

but the cactus stands,

silent and sharp.

Its wounds don’t weep,

but ache in the stillness —

a quiet witness

I never learned to tend.