I’m not much of a gardener — I’ve tried to catch the bug but I’m afraid despite my love of nature, gardening feels, like doing laundry, a never ending task.  Dandelions, which I have always enjoyed (probably because I do not fight with them too much) do not suffer from my unrefined habits, and happily take care of themselves.

Ode to the Dandelion

Thou wast not born to death, immortal flower!
And though each angry generation treads you down
your root and shaggy bloom repeat and shower
another neighbourhood in golden crowns.

Why are we enemies?  We call you ‘weed’
and plunge sharp implements deep and hoe
you from sweetened earth you only long to seed
and spread among the green spots of yellow.

Perhaps we’ve taken airs, cultivating flowers,
seduced by dahlias, impatiens, pinks
tricked to think we somehow release their power,
when it’s them enslaving us to serve the drinks!

A Dandelion is self sufficient, unspoiled by attention
in rain, in drought it weathers out, catching every eye.
Some angry, some indifferent — one only worth a mention:
a fistful from a child brings tears to someone’s eyes.

© 2016 Laurel Archer

(with appreciation for Ode to the Nightingale by John Keats)