by Jim Farfaglia
Oh, lowly dandelion,
sneakiest of all weeds,
rising above the new-spring grass
to proclaim yourself a sun-god.
There’s no controlling you,
laying claim wherever you choose,
and sending your root so deep
it looks like you’re here to stay.
Maybe you are something regal,
maybe you do command magical powers –
for, overnight, your golden sunburst
becomes a feathered snow-globe,
and, now, atop your throne you sit,
waiting for a noble breeze
to carry you into next May.