Spiny critters, cacti sit
Upon my window sill.
Some squat, some flat, some tall and thin,
All armed with pointed quill.

They sit in dirt and pebbly rock
And drink so slight a sip,
And one wrong move will bring about
Red blood from fingertip.

Taken from their native ground
They still somehow survive,
And even with attention’s lack,
They even tend to thrive.