Dandelions

My daughter turns and laughs,

"Oh, my mother, she’s a wild one."

She says so with admiration in her voice,

And the needle that jabs the tiniest of pinpricks,

To my soul is suspended, mid-stab.

"You know," says my sister, "it’s true."

She holds my hand as my voice wobbles,

Across centuries, and borders, and bodies of water

Enjoy it, while it lasts, you always do!

And I pause, pen to paper,

Epithets thick on my tongue.

Part of me knows he’s not wild enough.

Maybe nobody is or ever will be.

But it is so hard to walk away from the beautiful things

That life has given you, and you may not keep.

And in that sisterly comfort

Wild-haired and laughing through another

Scraped knee, we make fun of our own pain

Because there is nothing else to do

When you are a dandelion cycling through your stages:

Green and rooted, tenacious, sticky,

Then golden and glorious, face to the sun,

Then wispy and ethereal, milky, weeping,

Then floating on the wind, scattered to pieces

Only to be reborn, a weed in some other patch of

Crumbling earth, or hardened clay, or desert crust.

Always sneaking in roots. Always hopeful, always free.