praise to the dandelion
i too am a low thing, refusing.
i too am a gentle summer light waking
in the season of disbelief. Gentle to my brothers
who spring up in my place once they are without me;
my place is everywhere we seek.
i, too, am a note in a chorus of rage
reflecting the sun; we want nothing but
our own selves. i am
the living grace of bodies who find each other,
despite. How many are our names.
