Stinging Irony
Careful to repose
so as not to meddle,
I am loathe to brush
against the stinging nettle.
A rose’s thorn reminds with barb.
These plants hide theirs
beneath the garb
of leaves serrate
and stems strong standing,
lying in wait
as if they were planning.
Seven minutes
of itching and stinging,
in concert with aching,
a praise no one’s singing.
Intriguing to know
these sirens who grow
provide so much more
than a leg that is sore.
Isn’t it ironic
their leaves make a tonic
to calm
a balm
to relieve
to soothe
though their appearance
and demeanor
are certainly not smooth.