Dandelions
© 2008 Mark Pearce

I reach down deep inside myself to pluck dandelions.
I like the herb to dot my yard in single digits
but its deoxyribonucleic acid does not abide.

Perhaps, if the wind blew just right
all the dandelions in the world would end up
within one, three foot square.

I could take that. All the dandelions
in one place where I could visit them. Like a zoo.
I’d even enjoy blowing at the poof balls then,
spreading flighty seed over that ordained, three foot square.
Helping the dandelion keepers just by
pursing my lips and huffing.

As it is dandelions need no keepers,
at least within the confines of my yard.
Bees is all they need,
with a grace of wind.
 
When I reach down within myself to pluck dandelions
I know I am launched on endless task –
a battle between genera that I can never quite win.

You advise that I lather my yard with
triazine herbicide.
I could easily eliminate the yellow pox that way,
you say.

But the battle waged through conscript
would not have me reach within myself
in quite the same way.

And I wouldn’t see dandelions when I close my eyes.