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:


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

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