Dandelion(s)

By Natasha Marathakode Shafi

In the winter dawn, the mist settles

The wind bolts and whistles;

The sun no longer a part till late noon arrives.

Wandering the streets are those

Who only have places to be and not stay.

I wonder which I am,

An aimless soul or a party from the fray.

In endless chimes of worldly affairs,

Settles the dew on a singular boast.

A frail and playful and wild dandelion,

With soft feathery touch of a priceless mane

nothing but for people to blow away.

On the snowy lanes and willowy day,

Stays the dandelion bright and stray.

People watch not to admire the mighty lone,

For its world is not one of ours.

So march, march, footprints for the hours.

It does stay quiet and pleased

For watching others pass, draws its line forth.

It does not fear to be blown.

It loves the wind that carries its pride.

O’er the bright waters and glistening ice,

Each of its parts on borrowed time.

Some do sow to grow and spread

A wisdom that is taught not in paper binds.

It runs its course wild and free,

Going places where no one has seen,

Its stories told by warriors strong.

None do know that the dandelions are,

A wildness that is not contained,

A spirit for the fairies and heroes

That carry words from the places unseen.

A song it does sing,

With merry words.

Only those who still and listen will hear.

The stories of might and the ones it has seen

Through endless travel,

Of frost and dream.

Hold a dandelion and blow it into the wind

It carries your wishes to its find.

Wishes of youth and wisdom of old

They are all yours to hold or fold

If that’s a want you follow.

In spaces so wide yet shallow,

We fail to see

That you are a mighty dandelion and so is me.

By Natasha Marathakode Shafi