The Seeds of White/Gray Dandelions

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It is all temporary.

Claire de Lune
Will always
end
In fairy dust

It is all a distraction.

Dimensions
Will always explode
Like flash bombs

It is all a dream.

Perception
Will always arrive
Like an
Afterthought.


It is all a dance:

A Virginia reel
With do-si-dos
And the gallops of
Head ladies
And
Foot gentlemen
Sprinting for buses
And trains
And ways to say
I’m sorry.

But in the end
it’s all about
The aftermath of birth.
The swaddled
The stilled
And the not yet
grown ones
Whose final breath
Will best be
Remembered for
Releasing the
seeds of white/gray dandelions
Without getting the chance
To make a wish.










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