Rosie's Dandelion

Rosie brings in the last
dandelion, carrying it closed
in a chalice of hands like

a sacrament. Stock still,
she passes a slow thumb
around its bright corolla.

It lifts its head. We are charged
with its accommodation.
It lolls loud, a solo voice

in a wine glass. By morning
its royalty is spent. The crown
is sweated hair, the stem a bled

vein. Rosie cups its scrap length,
lifting it to me on a tear
for aid or explanation.

But what can I tell you
about time that I would
have you know so soon?

Dick Jones

If you have any comments on this poem, Dick Jones would be pleased to hear them.

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