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Dandelion Summer



They are a poor man’s flower,

bereft of innocence,

common,

everywhere.

They propagate,

blazing yellows

in fields of green,

tarnished by

their unwanted

presence.

The world can ill afford

the time to be

rid of them.

They are an

inconvenience

of summer.

They grow stubborn

to the wayward will

of tenders who

know better,

who have decided

extinction

would be best.

They live on false promises.

They grow in fervent hope.

They share the sun,

covet the rain as much

as any other.

Flowers there are,

consigned to table and porch,

coteries of culture,

gatherings of the refined,

celebrity watched,

admired,

discovered.

But there,

in the glooming light,

outlaws on the run

sow their profligate seed,

fix their roots deep

and declare

they will not be brushed

so easily aside.

The life force is theirs also.

Irresistible,

Demanding,

Insistent and

Proud.

It will not retreat

from a world

so little understood,

so careful in its

approbation

and deceit.


"In every poem there is beauty."

Cook County News-Herald.