The dandelion

A poem

And you thought I wouldn’t

have anything to say:

me, “so nice,”

“everyday,” and “common.”

But what prepared me for today

was not the night I swallowed.

It was not the mud pit I grew out from —

it was the sun I was promised —

it was the sweetness I would taste.

Didn’t you know?

I grow from my joys.

And I bring friends

if you pluck me.

You think we are weeds.

We are a million wishes.