Wishflowers

My father was a lawn manicurist
as his father before
it had to be perfectly filed—
all four corners

He would spend hours
yanking weeds by their root
each Saturday morning

He’d say, ‘They destroy
the grass if you let’m grow’
I would smile and nod
because he was the wisest
person I knew

But I loved the dandelion—
that lone survivor
bravely popping its head up

I never failed to dismember its seeds
with the zephyr of my breath

And clover
those tiny white or red petals
—clenched as a ranunculus bud—
    promising four-leaves of luck

Yet a yard full was unkempt
—an instilled belief
 emerging a fully formed god
 from its chrysalis of growth

For many years it bothered me
whenever an ocean of weeds
flooded my lawn

But it was my grandson
in his five-year-old innocence
who altered my belief

It’s etched in my memory
that Monday we arrived home
and the yardman hadn't come

He squealed and pointed
as though Christmas morning
“Look! Nana! Wishflowers!
EVERYWHERE!”

We became North winds
that afternoon
executioners of gloom
and hopelessness
amid a rapture of seeds
rising as departing spirits

Now my lawn is scarcely mowed
the yardman’s blade on high
so as not to disturb the clover
for the bumblebees

As far as dandelions go
they’re long gone before he ever arrives
by the belief
of my grandson's breath

Now fourteen
he picks them
after school
promising he’ll tell me
when his wish comes true

He has no room for doubt
and I know it will come to pass
because mine did too. . .

We pilfer the clover
for four leaves of luck
he says, 'Nana. . .
you're the wisest person I know'

I smile and think of my father
weeding the yard
when I was a little girl

and I've learned
even the wisest person we know
can be wrong
about what god is right for us

sometimes, we must allow
the old gods to die
to make room for the new

to emerge fully formed
from their chrysalis of growth