Memory

A wise man once wrote:
memory can give us
roses in December,
said the Poet.
Nice image in the dark of winter.

I am all dried up,
no more blossoms for me,
said the Thistle.
See you…
maybe next year.

Roses, schmoses,
some of them have thorns
that draw blood,
growled the White Cat.
Catnip does it for me.