The little yellow rascals
Bloom in bunches
Popping up here and there
Like sparks from
The camp fire
Accenting a bed of green.
I let them be.
What if they aren’t planted?
How cool actually
That they spring up on their own.
What grit! What inner drive
To sprout and survive.
Weeds!
That condescending sound
Their name makes..
Would feel
Challenged don’t you think?
Once it spots itself
Labeling a dandelion in full bloom
Looking like a feather ball
A halo
A wishing prop!
A wand of bubbles
Waiting to be blown
In the party of sunshine.
We pluck one. And another
“I want to blow them”
She squeals
Chasing after the specks
Once they unravel in her gentle exhale.
Weeds.
The ones that need to be uprooted
Morph and melt into meager miracles
Making wishes out of
Something so disdained!
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