You aren’t supposed to love them—dandelions—
when you live in the orderly suburbs
with neighbors who are conditioned
to be more concerned about property value
than the beauty of a lovely yellow flower
as careless as those same neighbors
wish they could be when it came to their whereabouts –
the location of their hearts scattered always
like those tiny feathered seeds
that praise the wind when it calls them,
lifts them into an adventure
so grand they become a thing of enviable beauty—
but no one wants to admit that they could be
outdone by the wild perfection of water sun and soil
and so they mow down the blanket of tiny suns
and pay for the electric green conformity
that snuggles up next to the beds of seedlings
deliberately planted in color schemes
to compliment the brick, the wood, and the front door—
a façade that announces you are just like everyone else.


DeMaris Gaunt