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Posts Tagged ‘dandelion’

One Less Hifalutin’

 

 

 

adding dandelions

to the bouquet of red roses—

the whole room oddly brighter

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It’s not so much because

poems make things better—

don’t heal the sick, don’t

stop a war, don’t make the bread

any less stale, don’t bring

people back from the dead.

But poems do have a way

of making me feel more

okay with the world not

being the way I wish it were.

They say yes to the world,

again and again, telling it

like it is. And then,

like a dandelion

already gone to seed,

they wait for the gust

that will strip them bare

until all that’s left

is a hint that once

there was something

lovely here.

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That peony, full bloom

and all honey perfume,

by the time she walks

in the front door again

she’ll have remembered

how to be dandelion,

her feet taprooted

to the kitchen floor,

her face common gold,

her hands soft rubbery green.

This soil only grows

what it knows to grow.

At night she dreams in pink.

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All day the dandelion

moved through the streets

disguised as a woman.

She was amazed

how friendly people could be

when you looked like one of them.

No one tried to pick her.

No one stepped on her.

They even commented

on how yellow and cheerful

she seemed. All I think

I know is wrong, she thought.

She felt oddly at ease

with this notion.

Still, all she wanted

was to return to her field,

to feel the sun move across

the sky, to feel her own goldenness

fade into white, into nothing.

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Gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.
—G.K. Chesterton

Standing in the field of golden blooms
it is easy to feel happiness. So bright,
after all, and such an abundance! Oh yellow!

Yellow all nodding and splayed! And then, well, happy
of course, because it is not my yard, and dandelions
are undeniably weeds. You know, the rubbery leaves.

The way they squeak underfoot when you walk.
The way that after a week or two they turn into gray seed
and proliferate successfully, as weeds do. It’s harder then,

once all the white wishes are spent and the hollow
stems stand naked and dull, harder to believe
that the pilgrims brought them to this land on purpose.

So many things are just this way—vibrant
for such a short season. But don’t fast forward. Admire
how they grow almost everywhere, from the Arctic Circle

to sub-Antarctica. That alone is cause for wonder.
Today, couple wonder with gold, miles and miles
of golden sway, and that, my friends,

makes for this curious tide of gratitude that rises
out of who knows where in the body and makes us want
to run out into the field and become the field

and wade in the gold and weave ourselves into the current.
Who could believe in a clock? Who could believe
there is anything to do in this moment but meet it and play?

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