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.
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