The Life of a Dandelion

sometimes,
white fingernails have uneven edges.
The farthest ends of a body are fibers
much like sticky plants or
much like dandelion stems.

Break,
when pulled and leak phloem
when twisted; the dandelion is hearty.
You can eat the leaves and also
it blooms the sun in segments.

Pencil yellow,
dandelion heads floss the grass until
folding close to a death made of
fuzzy white and closing petals
sealing off the senses:

the bravest
sustain this darkest time
where in tightly wrapped reflections
mazes of dark mirrors and pounding veins
the yellow life is shifted until perfection.

All
of the lines are tied; unfurl
and lift off: float free, seed.
White hangnail, drag your brush
across the sky, follow your crown.

Bury yourself
deep, deep in moist soil or
be plucked by warm fingers and wished
away. To patchwork pages
and fingernails again.

2 thoughts on “The Life of a Dandelion

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