Song of the Dandelion

No more than a seedling 
Clawing her way through darkness
Tentacles stealing time
Through dense charred earth
As if to heal her.

Arching, twisting, curling
Through life as did her maker
Long before she was coughed up
To fend for herself
A mere embryo drifting 
Toward a future that awaits
In nature’s splendor —or wrath of man.

And as she endeavors to grow
Probing, clutching, rooting
Is she eager to greet the light of day
And long to ooze sweet nectar
But for the life of a bee?

Does she yearn to emerge a prophet
Lay claim to the fate of a lover 
Who hurls a gust of air her way?
Does she dream of tempting the wind
To inch her towards death
For her progeny to savor life?
Does she recoil?

Or does she thrive
Embracing each stage of growth
Each stage of life
Every experience
With humility and grace?
Is she grateful
For the sun she salutes every morning
And veil of moonlight
Which, tucking her in, bids her goodnight.

I wonder

How might we live
In the vast miracle that is nature
The vast miracle that is Earth
When we yearn ourselves to death?

Yearning for youth as we age
And age in our youth
Seeking forgiveness for our sins
Sinning, once forgiven
Igniting a flame in the lap of devotion
Longing for devotion when we’re left aflame
Promising everlasting love
And abandoning the love of promise.

Is it just, I ask,
To sacrifice a flower
By commanding her to sing
Prophecies of love or sorrow?
And if we yearn ourselves to death
Must she too be led through death’s hollow?

Photo courtesy of Frank Cone
pennedbyalina ©2021