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Dandelions

For whom does the dandelion grow?
Light, savage and yellow and framed by stark gray
Thrusting skyward with no mind to
the problems of urban living
Or the minor inconveniences a wasteland of cement might pose.

Does she curse the rose, ruby lipped and prized
Cultivated in suburban gardens by swelling mothers
Does each betrodden day remind her
That in six weeks time she will dissolve on the wind like
The exclamation I could almost utter when I saw you today.

A river of roses and bouquets of tulips hold not
The brilliance of one dandelion in summer.

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