Dandelions

I kneel before the lion’s mane that frames a bulbous head

The stem bobs intermittently

Yet it remains stiff, at attention.

I do not pluck the head from its roots

Maybe if instead I bow to it–

If I kiss my knees to dusty ground

And kiss my lips to its level

If I keep it alive as I satisfy its needs of propagation

It will look upon me favorably.

Grant me my desire, oh Dandelion.

I lower my head and raise my eyes and blow and make a wish.

The virtuous maid undone by a single dying weed.

The naked head

nods in sated taunting glee

as I lift my lips away.

My wish is swallowed up as the seeds spurt into the wind

and cling stickily to my eyelashes and shirtsleeves.

My wish wasn’t important anyway

I think as I sight another dandelion.

Image via Google Images.

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