I loved to pluck the old white
clustered umbrella bones,
and blow them free, and imagine
how far they might go,

how many would land
into the kindness of a foreign soil
and grow again. I loved to pretend
the flower I plucked at that moment

the life I held then,
was the great-great-great grandchild
of a dandelion in Peru,
the old life and language

preserved, imprinted
within each green cell of the new.

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4 thoughts on ““Going Home, I Think About Dandelions”

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