Dear Thistle

This is Buckle, this is Buckle, a little dented but still rolling around. Oh Thistle, the things I have seen, the foods I have eaten, the sirens blaring. I heard a woodpecker in the Catskill spring, a new sound for antipodean Buckle--a thick small pounding of an evergreen. An ever green, Thistle, now there is an idea. I am trying not to get into trouble or at least trouble without meaning and always, I keep in the back of my unkempt mind, what would Thistle say--sometimes, though Thistle, I am too far away to guess. Just know I struggle to be ever green and you Thistle, are the pounding in my heart.