A field smiles
Brightens
Glows
With sunshine
The wind swings
Lifts
Spins
In paired dance
Your hand
Gone
Empty
Never picking
Dandelions die alone
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.
I believe in Dandelions.
They are freckles of the earth
Who only want to reach a sage stage
And bring you luck.
Not acne,
Made worse by picking.
I believe in Queen Anne’s lace.
I believe you can’t even really see the little black bugs
Unless you look for them.
I believe Thistles are prickly
Because they have been hurt before.
Someone told them they were pretty
But abandoned them for something with petals.
I believe wild Violets blush
Because they know they are whores;
Ashamed,
The try to hide their parentage
Behind deceptive good looks.
Pretty enough for you to pick
But not worth bringing home to meet the family.
I believe in weeds
Far more than the vanity
In a hybrid rose.
I had a notion. And then the stunning dandelions danced round and round as they sang songs of worlds yet to be discovered. They sang to the sun, so high above. It was yellow and they were yellow, but it was of a much more majestic hue and, therefore, was worshipped as a god by the people. The same people decapitated the dandelions.
The strongest returned and aged gray to bring the same people luck. Their dancing slowed and their singing turned into a requiem that they sung to the moon, who now shared their complexion.
Then the winter came and beat the dandelions with its genocidal will. Only the silent stars mourned the loss of the music that they loved despite misconstruing the lyrics. They insist upon complexity in everything, even the quietest song of the tiniest flower.
I had a notion. All the people were stars and they were silent and cold. They looked down and felt nothing for the dying because they had never really listened. Why would a star listen to a weed?
The Proud Dandelion 