The dandelion is a weed,
Say those who don't perceive its charm,
Who think it harbours only harm.
Until the flower goes to seed,
It sends a vibrant yellow hue
To all who pass before its view.
The fading flower must comply
With lines that bend and curve around—
By feathered seeds the stem is crowned.
This globe, so pleasing to the eye,
Is delicate and can't outlast
A sudden gust or sweeping blast.
But while intact, it speaks to me
Of stars aligned in harmony.
The flower, at its finish, frees
Pale wands to float along the breeze.
©2019 Michael Fraley
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