Dandelions

This pasture has seen
a thousand suns set

to seed. Now mostly green
fingers point blame

at the sky. How easily
the heavens could yield

to this heaviness ripe
with remembrance.

The eastern light suggests
a begetting that holds

nothing against the stalks.
The wind itself is fruit. Full

and empty then the same
dense absence. God created

each according to its kind,
giving every setting thing

a softness even a child
can pick and spread

with a wishful blow.

Published by asaur