Lawns are filled with a yellow tide

Of dandelions.

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.