| 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.
