I would say thistle but nobody listens to me anyway

Poetry is...........

Piglet,
our jumpers unravelling
as the balloon takes us higher
readers holding onto the thread
while words blow across
our windy day page.

Poohsticks,
the young heart beat that remembers
leaning over the old stone bridge
waiting to see what comes out
the other side, and how
to describe it.

Eeyore's party,
pessimistic and gloomy
bursting in a rain cloud
that helps us splash
red wellingtons
on the page.

Tigers pouncey trouncey,
playing with our own reflections
feeding energy into every situation
sitting on our coiled springs
waiting for the words to bounce.