During the day
the dandelions reign supreme
over the blades,
over the soil.
But at night they wilt in shame.
They blind the bugs
that crawl beneath
that bend and strive
still out of reach.
They primp and sway
under breeze’s praise.
But only feature at the sun’s say.
They mock the tired hand
that cuts them down
or bids them go.
On and on
they grow and grow
no mortal thing
acknowledged foe.
But solely in the daytime though.
For at night,
at night they feel their worth.
Little blemishes upon a small plot of earth.
Cowering under the fallow sky.
Filled with stars’ mirthful cries.
For shame,
for shame what lusterless stalks.
How dare they look up
from their tasteless rock?
For shame,
for shame such insolence.
Pretenders, false glimmers
lack in beauty as penitence.
The dandelions weep echoing
for shame,
for shame that’s in our name
we did not truly see
the vast field
above our heads
filled with that which
we can never be.
Shame ages them gray
beyond shine,
beyond prime.
Until all they could do
was flee
into the next generation.
Never escaping the censure
of those who laughed
at their simple nature.
The Proud Dandelion 