Lawns are filled with a yellow tide
Up and down they sweep the yards
In careless spray.
From childhood time-cracked steps
I watch the white-haired dandelions
Jutting here and there,
Speckles in a season of yellow youth.
The neighborhood is oddly filled
With grandmothers and children.
They meet over handfuls of dandelions.
Both knowing and innocent they watch,
Saying nothing but through dandelions
And a practiced hesitation.