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.