We discern the
milky
seeds
of dying
dandelions,
afloat in
mid-June zephyr,
and I tell you
as I boy I saw
them
through my
bedroom window,
wondering how it
snowed
when it was
sultry
beneath the sun.
It was only
after that
when my mother
spoke of wishes,
I should run
into the
yard and pluck a
stem,
blow my breath
in yearning,
seeing
what might come
true.
I asked her if
this weed was King
of Flowers,
if our cat
was a distant
cousin,
if a wish was
better than a
prayer
(the latter gone
unanswered
in her days of
sick & blood);
if it mattered
if my eyes were
closed or open;
and if I peeked,
was it
critical if I
witnessed
where they
landed, like
bowing my head
at grace,
glancing at
the others when
I shouldn’t—
thanking their
fickle God
who’d take
offense
if He ever
caught me,
make me go to
bed without my
dinner,
my litanies
unheeded as she
passed,
drifting off my
tongue,
useless as a
cloud
that gives no
rain when it is
begged, a
winter-hearted
genie in the
wind.
©Andreas Gripp
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