Dandelions

The dandelions

agree to everything,

caring little for where

they find themselves.

Accustomed to feeling

inferior,

they are content to live

by their own means

as others do by their wits.

Contrary to their reputation,

they are not a weed,

nor the chosen flower

for a boutonniere

on a wino’s lapel.

But they are the Fool’s gold

of the floral world,

accustomed to being dismissed.

Bright countenance,

you lift your face

in prayerful alliance

and mimic the sun

as if it were

joyful to be humble.

Though lacking glamour,

your simplicity speaks

with startling

sophistication.

Even as your roots

gain strength

by interlocking

hands

beneath

the earth.

Inclined to cluster,

you enjoy nothing

more than being

amongst your own kind,

as if your sunny

alphabet

dared to spell

a word more

definitive than

your color.

Though

in numbers

you seem

an unruly mob,

you alone

form

a chorus.

Even as

a solo choir,

you remain

undaunted

by hardship

or landscape.

Plucked and held

under a chin,

it is possible

to make of you

a golden butter,

proof that your

divine imagination

is in harmony with

the sun's rays.

Then,

after living

a life of vibrant yellow,

your exuberance

matures

exploding into

a backward butterfly,

living proof

that breath becomes

a ghost in the chill air;

a gentle geometry

of fireworks

that is nothing less

than holographic.

Evolving,

you finally implode,

initiating

an unexpected

transformation

with your

final act:

to fulfill the wish

blown from

the lips

of a child

bold enough to yearn

for something

greater.