A Childhood Moment in Old Age

Dandeliion season, so bright and so short
is nearly done. A few yellow straglers.
A few remaining puff balls.
All else are dried stalks, stripped of their dreams.

But there is time yet.
You pick one of the remaining balls of seeds
and hold it up, crystaline in the sun
and blow.

And watch the white seeds take flight,
light in the summer breeze,
a few falling short, the rest traveling far
out of sight.

About this poem.

There is something ageless about blowing dandelion puffballs. And there is something ageless about dreams, love and hope.

Tom