To your surprise, perhaps, we’re still around
To see the dandelions make a better
Fist of yellow than the daffodils.
I should explain: I don’t share Wordsworth’s taste
For lakeside strolls, and the dandelion is bolder,
With an admirable disregard
For shade and shelter. Yes, they’re soon to silver
And disperse, but seeding out, we’re told,
Is natural; and think what good a bunch
Of airheads scattered by the wind might bring
To anywhere (please, anywhere) but here.
Maybe. But count on it: next year these fields
Will be emblazoned with the heraldry
They wear today, the lion’s ruff will roar
Up through the concrete, and the cracks between
The paving stones will be buttoned up with gold.
April 2015, Botton Village