Weeds
Dear Yellow Dandelion in my windowsill,
How could something
so bright and cheerful
be named a weed?
My mom once told me
that weeds are not named
by their beauty,
but by their ability to suffocate
and overpower
the other plants and flowers.
How is it that when your delicate,
yellow petals are replaced
by the puff of soft seeds,
they will inspire people
to make wishes and dreams?
Are hopes born
from the prick
of its leafy base,
or perhaps from its
destruction through soft,
blowing lips?
A plant that is in a word,
a weed,
which is by definition undesirable,
and yet beautiful
despite of its negative connotation?
In a free-grown yard,
I could pick up
the dandelions that
would seemingly pop
from the earth
in scattered places
along the ground.
I could create dandelion
crowns and hold an aged
one between my fingers
and blow my hopes into the sky.
I could stare at the bald flower
as excitement welled up
inside of me.
Is it really
the dandelion’s fault
for growing
above the grass,
and spreading
across the meadows?
When we try to destroy them
with our mowers and spades,
but they seem to reappear-
which is in the wrong?
Doesn’t beauty do that?
Does not beauty
exist to be seen,
and refuse to be hidden-
despite itself?
When finally we come
with our sprays and our poison,
when finally we manage
to rid ourselves of the thing,
don’t we find that eventually
they will reappear,
having been carried over
on a confused breeze
from a neighboring yard?
Despite being named a weed-
your persistence inspires me.
So I say to the dandelion
outside my window,
you have influenced my soul
in one small way today,
but it’ll last till tomorrow.
My prickly circumstances
have made me more beautiful,
and I can see that life
is not about preserving self,
but promoting the
continuation of that beauty.
This poem is about:
Me
Our world