So often scoffed at as the enemy of lawns,
that one last dandelion I missed
blinks her golden eye in disbelief,
watching me pull the grass
growing among the daffodils.
Sometimes the footprints in which I walk
are small. They lead me across a field
where my granddaughter chases a garter snake,
picks dandelions, points to a swallowtail butterfly,
or up a hill through the woods where my grandson
warns me not to rub against poison ivy or kneels
on the side of the path watching grasshoppers mate.
The smaller the prints I follow, the more I see.
Are my poems
more like tattoos
or museum art?
When I die
will they disappear
into the darkness
If you have any comments on these short poems, Wilda Morris would be
pleased to hear from you.