Dandelion

Dandelion

Cumulus clouds drifting dusty seedheads –
as if a yearning ancestor carried them from skeletal beginnings,
they dance on the wind
germinating and growing and weaving chains of childhood memories.

Up close to my nose, the butter-mustard tang of the dandy
reminiscent of crazy salads prepared by Italian aunts,
lion’s greens dressed and tossed at picnics, splashed and anointed with chianti,
spilling from bowls on the oilcloth beneath a summer sky.

Knowing no bias for neighborhoods, they poke from city sidewalks,
cow pastures,
from the cracks of suburban cul-de-sacs.

There is something uncommonly common
about the dandelion.

2 thoughts on “Dandelion

  1. Oh boy….I didn’t come from a Italian family but you certainly managed to capture the essence of that experience in a few words. And I DID weave chains of dandelions – a sweet childhood memory… I wish the world had more of the dandelion’s lack of bias!

    Like

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