i am not unlike you, little
dandelion, your honest glow
a weed, a nuisance
to be rid of. and so, I get why
the sunshine of your tender face
pale and the whole of your being
into fragile white, pieces falling,
hoping to be caught
by the wind, an invisible
river rolling pain away to
a place far away where the soil understands
better than the place where you first took root
and there, you blossom.
the field, wild,
with flowers once weeds like you, bending,
to the wind for carrying them
to a place where at last they rest,
their roots pushing in deep, understanding.
and you bloom.