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.