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.


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