Dandelions
To survive, they come up
flat, spread-eagled, below
the mower’s blade. At the last
minute they send up a frenzy
of stems, their gold. If there are no
insects, they pollinate themselves.
What a trick! Think of sending
down your interminable taproot.
You are here to stay.
You are here to send your seeds
away on silken threads.
You have learned to lie low, bloom
fast, love the dirt, let your children go.
You think you will go on forever
this way. Maybe this isn’t thinking.
Maybe you’re simply a particular
brightness from the great urge.
Does that make you feel humble,
that you didn’t plan to be here
and you didn’t design your own
face, and you’ll pass away
when the urge moves on. Remember
when you brought a bouquet
of dandelions to your mother
and she filled a jelly jar with water
and put them on the table? Maybe
she did that. She was saying thank you
to the universe for your little life.
Fleda Brown’s tenth collection of poems, Flying Through a Hole in the Storm (2021) won the Hollis Summers Prize from Ohio University Press and is an Indie finalist. Read more.