and you bloom. a poem for artists.

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 

turns 

pale and the whole of your being

transforms

into fragile white, pieces falling, 

hoping to be caught

by the wind, an invisible 

river rolling pain away to 

somewhere

a place far away where the soil understands 

you 

better than the place where you first took root 

and there, you blossom.  

the field, wild, 

with flowers once weeds like you, bending,  

grateful 

to the wind for carrying them 

to a place where at last they rest, 

their roots pushing in deep, understanding.

and you bloom.

   
   

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