Dandelions

Agree to everything.

Care little where

you find yourself.

Accustomed to feeling

less than,

be content to live

by your own devices

(translation: wits.)

You are not a weed,

but heartiest flower

of the promised land.

Bright countenance, you

lift your face

allied for prayer

and mimic the sun

as if it were

cheerful to be lowly.

Though glamour-less,

your simplicity speaks

a startling

sophistication.

Your roots 

find strength

by joining

hands 

beneath the

harshest ground.

Tending to cluster 

you enjoy nothing 

more than being

like amongst like,

as if your sunny

alphabet

dared to spell

a word more

definitive than

your color.

Though 

you appear

an unruly rabble, 

you constitute

a chorus.

Even as

a choir of one

you remain

undeterred

by hardship 

or terrain.

Plucked and held

under the chin,

it is possible

to make a 

magic butter,

proof your

divine imagination

is in tandem with

the light of 

of the sun.

And then

after living

a life of yellow,

your exuberance

comes of age

exploding it’s

backwards butterfly,

a living poof

the color of breath

in cold air;

a gentle geometry

of fireworks

and holograph. 

Evolving,

you birth

an ashen awe,

an unforeseen

metamorphosis

reborn

by the wish

of someone

for something

more.

Peter Valentyne

June 6th, 2020