Dandelions

after “Make a Wish” by Lisa Dailey

I

Yellow dandelions blossomed

spring green. This is our birth month,

Momma said. Happy. My small hand

in hers, just the two of us,

in a lush field. Aliveness

quickened our step. This, Momma said,

is a dandelion, too. She plucked

a stem crowned with fluffy white tufts

like her grandmother’s hair.

She taught me to purse my lips,

make a wish, and blow.

Our wishes scattered

here and there.

II

My kindergarten class sat

crisscross applesauce in a circle

on a bright blue rug.

Dandelion, I said

when asked to name

a favorite flower. The teacher

corrected me: A dandelion is a weed.

What is a weed, I wondered. 

A weed is a wild plant growing

where it is not wanted. 

III

In a non-existent field where

memory is as white and illusive

as those flying whisps of dandelion

seeds, I squeeze my momma’s hand,

too young to know that she and I

are considered weeds, too.

Just like the dandelion, unstoppable.

by Robin Michel, published in Wild Greens, Volume 5, Issue X, Ekphrasis