Weeds

Growing up my neighbors had a perfectly manicured lawn.

No scratch that.

My Neighbors had Mani-Pedi day at the salon type lawn.

With grass so green it hurt to look at it,

Mowed so precisely it would cut your feet to walk on it.

My lawn growing up was not so.

My front yard was characterized by a tree, a couple flower beds, patches of dirt and most importantly dandelions

I loved our dandelions, they were wishes, countless wishes, which would ride winds, to find new homes and grow into the world.

They were hope incarnate,

Sticky chocolate cheeks puffed out,

A lung full of desire

And a mouthful of promise

And enough naiveté to think that a breath could speak wants into existence.

I still blow on dandelions.

In a world where wishes are rejected by realists

Where neighbors yell about flowers blown onto their lawn

Where people say “get real” but instead of it being encouragement to will wishes into reality  it is a condemnation saying settle for mediocrity

People tell me “Those are weeds, not flowers”

What defines a weed?

It grows when unwanted,

It’s tough to kill

And if you want to fit in, they’ve got to go

But if I cared about fitting in, this would be a poem about puzzles not dandelions

So let me tell you, I will blow on dandelions until age steals the breath I have

And will not only abstain from weed killers,

But will cultivate wishes for my kids

And if I look into it I will sip the wine of fermented wishes

Get drunk on possibility

And run out at night

Stage an assault on normalcy and conformity

And blow dreams and desires on to manicured lawns

And when yellow hopes blossom in emerald deserts

Someone will say “Man, those things turn up everywhere”