Dandelions
As a kid, I didn’t care that dandelions were weeds
Pick them all!
Crushed stems filled fat little hands
Till little hands were bitter with milky sap
And when they had gone to seed
Their bobbing over sized heads
White and tufted
It took so many breaths
To send those weed seeds drifting
Oh, wait! This was a different hour. It’s still lovely, the memory and the lines. I can see the childlike elation of “send(ing) those weed seeds drifting.”
Thank you for reading my work!