Weeds

Dear Yellow Dandelion in my windowsill,

How could something 

so bright and cheerful 
be named a weed? 
 
My mom once told me
that weeds are not named
by their beauty, 
but by their ability to suffocate 
and overpower 
the other plants and flowers. 
 
How is it that when your delicate,
yellow petals are replaced
by the puff of soft seeds,
they will inspire people 
to make wishes and dreams? 
 
Are hopes born
from the prick 
of its leafy base, 
or perhaps from its 
destruction through soft, 
blowing lips? 
A plant that is in a word, 
a weed, 
which is by definition undesirable, 
and yet beautiful
despite of its negative connotation? 
 
In a free-grown yard,
I could pick up 
the dandelions that 
would seemingly pop 
from the earth 
in scattered places 
along the ground. 
I could create dandelion
crowns and hold an aged
one between my fingers 
and blow my hopes into the sky.
I could stare at the bald flower
as excitement welled up 
inside of me. 
Is it really 
the dandelion’s fault 
for growing 
above the grass, 
and spreading 
across the meadows? 
When we try to destroy them 
with our mowers and spades, 
but they seem to reappear- 
which is in the wrong? 
 
Doesn’t beauty do that? 
Does not beauty 
exist to be seen, 
and refuse to be hidden- 
despite itself? 
When finally we come 
with our sprays and our poison, 
when finally we manage
to rid ourselves of the thing, 
don’t we find that eventually 
they will reappear, 
having been carried over
on a confused breeze 
from a neighboring yard? 
 
Despite being named a weed- 
your persistence inspires me.
So I say to the dandelion 
outside my window, 
you have influenced my soul 
in one small way today,
but it’ll last till tomorrow. 
 
My prickly circumstances 
have made me more beautiful, 
and I can see that life 
is not about preserving self, 
but promoting the 
continuation of that beauty.
This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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