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DANDELIONS
by Selia Qynn 1/5/98

I spend a lot of time scrawling these lines on my steering wheel at the light.
Some of my thoughts go there, some go to thin air, some I sing every night.
Ghosts of my ancestors rolling by, disguised as dust in my room
Haunting the eons from under the bed. Remind me that I am dust too.

Collecting in shadows. Watching me sleep.
Ghosts of my ancestors. Waiting for me.

When I was a child I made dandelion chains and wished on a 4-leaf clover.
I wondered why seeds would float in the wind and why weeds always took over.
Grandpa said it was magic. Grandma said it was a curse.
I thought the angels made a mistake trying to feed all the birds.

Why do you follow the wind? I asked one little seed.
You inspire me my friend. When you give your breath to me.

Dandelions in the clover
Turn to dust and then take over.
Once I picked a perfect puff
And blew away the magic stuff.

Now I watch my mom in her 70s, growing her flowers and pulling weeds.
Trying to bend the arthritic knee, remembering times long ago.
When she was more agile and able, flowers always on the table
Now she's come to her final decision. She's letting the dandelions grow.

Dandelions in the clover turn to dust and then take over.
Once I picked a perfect puff and blew away the magic stuff.

I used to write so intensely. Inspired by the seeds in my mind
As if my life depended on the poetry I'd write.
Back to my steering wheel waiting for lights to change.
Back to my scribbling, playing the waiting game.

I spend a lot of time scrawling these lines on my steering wheel at the light.
Some of my thoughts go there, some go to thin air, some I sing every night.
Dandelions in the clover turn to dust and then take over.
Once I picked a perfect puff and blew away the magic stuff.