It’s that time of year.
Even amid hushes of snow,
the dandelions appear.
How like us they are,
arranging themselves about their clocks,
terrified of being uprooted.
Created to live for a season
and then die beyond themselves,
instead they push their feet into the soil
and flatten their bodies against the sod.
Huddling beneath the mowings of time,
they strive to invent a purpose,
borrowing their color from the sun.
And when the sun takes it back,
they send their progeny into the wind, saying,
“Remember me, remember me,”
hoping for immortality second hand
when something far more beautiful was planned.