Sometimes,

when the bank account balance

and sprawling to-do list

make me have to remind myself

to deeply breathe,

I wish that I could once again

be seven years old

blowing dandelion seeds.

 

You know, when they turn from

yellow to white, the brown tips

as seeds to drift, settle, and grow

in a new place?

I didn’t know nor care about any of that,

however, at seven years old,

in an endless meadow’s field,

blowing away dandelion seeds.

 

I could spin for minutes on end

and then plop to the ground

for a nap.

My clothes could become dirty and wrinkled.

My hair could become so ruffled and tangled

that Mom would bemoan having to aggressively

brush it out for me.

 

Unlike now

- professional and punctual,

clean and composed,

goal driven and grammatical –

I wasn’t aware of and didn’t care

about any of that

at seven years old

blowing away dandelion seeds.