Dandelion

There are winds: strong in Autumn,
and strong in spring.
When nature's heart is full they're there
for taking, for giving.


Those nimble thoughts have set
like nocturnal dusks eliminating
all the causes that hindered our sights
for us to revel in this redeeming captivity.

I pick at your vast philosophies
that scurry in methodical formations
beneath the bark of solid oaks
that I helplessly peel off.
I may kill the tree but under the bark
is a thriving organised network
where the death of something colossal
is a tiptoe advance in its evolution.

When all is distorted and swayed by mass
you're there, defining the abstract.

Sophistry is lost when I read you; the truth
is only true when it drops from a pure tongue.

There are things usually nature-born
that have the sole purpose of sacrifice
they don't know how or why, they just are.


I saw the tall stem of a dandelion holding
a full head of its labour.
Above the grass it waited unconditionally
for a wind; its death, its saviour.