First dandelions—at the neighbor’s—
have already lost their bloom,
and at the first break of light,
their heads just above the grass
shiver and gleam—frothy drops
of tiny misty clouds, raising silver notes
over the dream of searching silence—
downy blowballs waiting
for a brush of passing breeze,
so at last they will be relieved
of the lightest of the burdens they bear on
between what is and what is not—
and they could release, even to a poem
like this,
letters—flying seeds.
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