Cactus

The cactus seems a friendly man

 a-standing on his hill.

I’d like to go and shake his hand;

 today I think I will.

He stands upright, his arms outstretched,

 a-reaching toward the sky.

His neck and head, they blend as one—

 can’t wait to meet this guy!

 But as I clasp his hand in mine

 at-tempting to befriend,

a stab of pain shoots up my arm:

our close regard must end.

 There has to be a moral here

 a-waiting to be learned:

“Although it’s fine to cordial be,

make sure your love is earned.”