Dandelion

There is a dandelion near the canal, in a rainstorm in May.

It stretches its stem and arcs into the wind, like an ancient, wise yogi.

It protects its head with saffron coloured petals, and lets the water droplets fall into the roots.

It seems too gentle, lost and alone.

All still the dandelion.

After the wind, when the clouds run away, and the blue skies whisper “it’s now calm again,” the dandelion breathes out and sequesters the rain.  Each miraculous molecule of water, used up by parched needs.

An ounce of love, for every moment the same.

Unguarded, untamed, uncared for.

Gentle little dandelion, so lost and alone.

This brightly coloured dancer has seen it all before.  An ensemble of bees, bugs and butterflies visit, stop near the venerable healer with soft medicine. Some stay for tea before they travel on.  The living and the soil admire their atoms, entrust their kindness and compliments. 

Dimensional otherness, elsewhere and sublime.

A previous little dandelion, mixing in harmony for all of eternity, surrounding itself, in a rainstorm in May.