Sunday, November 16


in the middle of a dull gravel road
where no tires tread
a lone dandelion breaches
the hard-packed surface
and grows in a puddle of sun

its leaves are not free to unfurl
like its kin in the meadow
but held in the grit of contraction,
birthing its one golden eye

a beacon
should it survive
for the passerby to pause,
crouch low and gaze upon the face
of a humble flower

who owes no apology to the rose
or the orchid for that matter
for its lowly residence
or eagerness to invite itself
into the landscape

its saffron mane of summer
signals plentiful nectar
to buzzersby and butterflies
and in the fall, transforms to silken
gossamer globes

awaiting the stir of a gentle breeze
or the pursed lips of children
to blow their seeds in ever-widening arcs,
landing where they may
emerging in spring among kin in the meadow
or alone on a dull gravel road

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