Dandelions
The dandelions are drowning
all of their brightness
submerged, their cries
muffled beneath uncaring droplets of
springtime water,
springtime blossoms
best beside greener reflections
"bury me in lavender"—
—wishes unheard
The destiny of destitution:
to live with petals
just above the waves
just tall enough to touch the sun
to taste it.
And winter ends as it always does,
marching in a direction
neither forward nor backward, but:
Somewhere.
And spring kisses goodbye,
may it bring a sleepy nostalgia, or
Something else entirely.
They choke underwater
(evidence they once breathed)
yet the only silks their stems will
touch are those
of the rising tide,
the water, which
did care after all