Firethorn

It waits in the quiet edges, not asking to be touched. A shrub with bite, wearing berries like blood-bright armor.

In autumn, it flares.

Clusters of orange and red catching the last heat of the year. Birds dive in and vanish like secrets. Children reach for it and learn.

Firethorn doesn’t soften for beauty.

It grows dense, thorn-laced, unapologetically itself. A hedge, a warning, a feast. Come too close and it reminds you: not everything vivid is safe, not everything rooted is tame.

It thrives on the tension between hunger and hesitation. Still, in winter, when so many fade, it holds its color. Bold. Prickling. Alive.