Saturday, October 10, 2015



A Dandelion for My Mother
Jean Nordhaus


How I loved those spiky suns,   
rooted stubborn as childhood   
in the grass, tough as the farmer's   
big-headed children—the mats   
of yellow hair, the bowl-cut fringe.   
How sturdy they were and how   
slowly they turned themselves   
into galaxies, domes of ghost stars   
barely visible by day, pale   
cerebrums clinging to life   
on tough green stems.   Like you.   
Like you, in the end.   If you were here,   
I'd pluck this trembling globe to show   
how beautiful a thing can be   
a breath will tear away.



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