If you walk to the end of your porch
spread your arms in width
arch your chest toward the sun,
and open your eyes
You may catch a glimpse
Of the last dandelion.
Between the burnt grass
and below the hill
Caught by viscous winds.
Beaten from side to side.
Bleeding seeds
of blinding beauty.
Swept and consumed by the vast
Your eye could never tell,
where the dandelion fell.
or why it performed its death
above your frown.
