My Writing: Dandelions

A short story, a freeform poem. Dedicated to the women and girls of this world, and our undying hope.

“Tell me the story.”
“Again?”
“Please, Mama. Tell me the story.”

A thin blanket wrapped tighter, a sigh,
A lingering kiss on a tiny forehead,
A deep breath, she began. 

---

“Once upon a time, in a land far away, 
Where dandelions grew gold under a sky of blue,
Lived a little girl who had magic in her hands.

Freely, she walked, collecting flowers,
Woven into a crown and placed upon her pretty head.
Held until her hands could hold no more.

With an innocent smile, and the reach of a small hand,
An offer,
To strangers passing by. 

‘For you,’ she’d say. ‘A wish.’
Yellow petals bruised under careless fingers,
A token, taken. A somber smile turned wistful.

She’d bring home a bouquet for her mother,
Kept the leafy green stems.
Her mother liked those best. 

Their sunny heads laid to rest on a worn pillow,
A beacon for tomorrow,
The girl’s wishes, gathered, faded in the night.  

In the morning, she walked again.
Stained hands hunted, shared her treasure.
But the smiles made her sad.

So again, she walked.
And again.
And again. 

Until the gold was harder to find,
The crown upon her head a memory,
Her last flower offered to a man who wouldn’t take it from her hand.

She washed her stains, as her mother taught her,
Saw the yellow swirl until it faded,
And laid her head, her fingers lost of magic. 

The next morning, she walked again,
A habit without hope,
And missed the colors of the land. 

And again, she walked.
And again.
And again. 

Until she found the clouds,
Growing in a barren womb, no gold in sight,
Puffy heads within reach of her small hands, a wonder.

The first she picked blew away.
More gently, she plucked another,
And watched as it, too, was lost to the wind. 

She thought of her mother, of smiles she hadn’t seen, 
And gathered long stems, more than she needed,
Hiding them against her heart as she walked home.

She did not make offers,
To the few strangers she passed,
And kept the tickle against her chest a secret. 

To her mother, she gave the bouquet of clouds.
‘Wishes, all our own,’ she said. 
Her mother smiled, and it wasn’t sad. 

‘My girl,’ her mother said, ‘Wishes must be planted.’
They walked, hand in hand, and took twin breaths,
And blew their hope into the wind.

The clouds scattered under a gray sky.
The girl and her mother braided the stems into a wreath,
And hung it above their door. 

Time passed, and the little girl grew older,
As did her mother. 
The sky did not regain its color. 

Hands that once held magic forgot their path,
Fingers grasped in the dark for fields of gold out of reach.
Her mother, laid to rest, a dandelion wreath on her chest.

Then new hands broke through the earth, 
With a scream, a cry, the sky opened,
And there was a hint of blue in the gray. 

After the rains, a woman walked,
A tiny hand clutched in hers, 
Wishes sowed on stems from first innocent touches.

With time, shy smiles to strangers returned,
Given from a new little girl who never knew magic,
But found it to share among the weeds.

One day, 
The fields returned to gold,
Long lost wishes blooming against a clear sky. 

And the mother picked dandelions,
Wove them into a crown, 
And placed it on her daughter’s head.

And the daughter picked wishes, 
And gave them freely to those they passed, 
Gold petals, treasured, kept safe from harm.”

---

Deep breaths, tiny whines, 
A sleepy voice in the dark.
“Did the sky turn blue again?”

The same question, every night. 
“Yes, my girl,” her Mama said. “The sky is blue and full of stars,
Wishes waiting just for you.”

A little girl tucked in tight, 
Her mama, hands cold, gazes to the sky,
And makes a wish.