A few weeks ago on a damp and cold and dreary
"When do you ever think
we will see those yellow flowers again?"
"What yellow flowers?"
But I was thinking
Then with a contemplative
tone in her voice
the only way I know
to describe them
Then I knew!
When she was just a tiny
she christened a dandelion puff
I've loved dandelion puffs,
since I was a child.
I love blowing them
watching the seeds
on the wings of the fragile puff
of my breath
or the wind.
Once when I was in elementary school
I found a huge dandelion puff
where two stems had fused
and grown together
heart shaped puff
much larger than I had ever seen.
And so began my fascination with them.
Upon her pronouncement of calling them
so very aptly named,
in my humble opinion,
they became just that much more
dear to me.
We never fail to have
a bouquet each Spring
I perused the yard and I only found one actual wishberry.
It wasn't a perfectly round seed pod of puff and promise.
It was actually kind of small and tattered.
It was battered by the wind and last night's rain.
But still the promises were there,
in the seeds
that waited to be released
from their tiny station on the stem.
The seed held the promise for more young wishberries.
The seeds will float,
still a part of their past,
but becoming something new.
I suppose life
just isn't life
Scattering and change
hope for regrowth.
When there is enough rain and wind and battering,
those seeds will
loosen their grip and spread
and there will be more yellow polka dots across
I know most people don't like them.
And find them to be a nuisance.
I see hope...
in the promise of the wishberry.