A BOUQUET OF DANDELIONS
Rodney J. Hugen
A child, giggle-laughing,
how it is supposed to be,
sniffing bright yellow dandelions,
clasping them in soft, grubby hands,
offering with open heart,
a wide-eyed innocence,
these weeds, torn from darkened earth,
given to a mother’s gentled heart.
I am that little boy and
she dance-clapped with glee
as though I’d given her a rose,
or the majestic beauty of an orchid.
A mason jar from the kitchen cupboard
became a cut glass vase,
the water glass home
of my simple proffered treasure.
She could hardly wait
to point my Father’s smiling eyes,
toward my centerpiece of love,
I missed the wink-grin
they surely must have shared.
Much later I discovered
the awfulness of weeds,
the noxious curse of dandelions,
the blight of feathery seed pods
blowing corruption to the wind.
Still, I wonder if I’ve ever given
a sweeter, better gift
than my handful of brokenness,
that ragged dandelion bouquet?
05/10/07 |
