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By Smaktakula

DANDELIONS

 

When the vinegary old lady

who lives next door

shakes her cane at you and hollers

that nasty children mustn’t run through her yard

because of  her beautiful flowers

which you’ll ruin with your horsey feet,

run away far and fast

leaving only the ghost of your laughter as an echo.

Much later,

when the bent and lonely old lady next door

has shuffled into her home to watch her stories on the television

and not to be bothered with her garden

until the sun has warmed the earth again,

gather dandelions from a secret space

and place them in a bucket

 until it churns and brims with dandelion cumulus,

and then secretly, quietly

so that the stories she watches are louder than your silent feet,

creep back to the old woman’s yard

 and into her beautiful garden.

Then hurl the bucket,

let fly the froth and foam

so that wisps hang in the late April air

like a February snowfall,

and then plummet in their thousands

 upon the dark, rich accepting soil

of the mean old neighbor lady’s garden

for good luck.

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