I’m a dandelion.

Sometimes I think it’s empowering to be anywhere

but I’m reminded that I’m just a weed

in a sea of poppies, lilies and the occasional orchid.

 

Each is a story and mine has been changed so many

times I’m not sure what to share.

Mostly I’m concerned even when I've thrown down roots that last

everyone worth knowing will have passed

 

to a barren field so they can be the only color.

It’s the movement that inspires reflection,

because I see everyone else stopping

and I wonder how they know a place is perfect.

 

I’m used to being alone, but all they know is company.

Crowded in a room that never ends, dying to be different

yet to me they have always been a new face. 

Despite all the digging, I’m surprised what roots clasp

 

onto. A memory they aren’t supposed to enjoy. A time

they hope is special but fear is not. Each one I find

beautiful, inspiring, outrageously filled with life, even

though they have long since resigned to the blossoms

 

around them. It makes me wonder, how do they see me?

Obnoxiously contributing a faint white paired with a dull

green where everyone is used to rainbows, I am limited

to two colors and daydreams of two lives.

 

They must prefer their kin, people who they think are the

only ones who can share their identity. What use do they

have for another passenger of the wind, not knowing

when it must go, only that is has never been an if.