The prickles of the cactus
are for protection, not inspection.
The cactus doesn’t need a No Trespassing sign–
experience is the best teacher.
Look, but don’t touch.
What if the cactus struck blind
anyone who took a peek at it?
Be thankful that’s not the case.
If I were a cactus, I’d be much like myself.
I wouldn’t even ask you to water me,
I’d just stick it out on my own.
The desert is a congenial place, not lonely at all.
The company of other cacti, I wouldn’t mind.
In fact, we’d be of like mind–
close, but not too close,
just far away enough to be a secret.
Secrets are like cacti.
They don’t surrender voluntarily; it’s not their nature.
Just leave them alone.
Leave yourself alone if you want to be a secret.
Everybody has one. It’s where the desert blooms.
It’s where you stand sentinel
against the barren sand and sky,
where everyone else can look but not touch.
If you knew your own secret,
it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.
If you told me why it had to be a secret,
You’d be giving too much away.
Lee Evans lives in Bath, Maine with his wife and cat. Since he doesn’t have a regular job anymore, he is free to produce more poems than he probably should. Various samples of his work can be found on his blog: https://theroadstopshere.blogspot.com/