Dandelions
Janel Phelan
We assume
that the weather will turn
that the cycle of seasons
will continue
but we do not, in fact
know.
Her long hair, blonde
streaked with grey
falls over her face
as she spins and listens
listens and spins.
Her eyes are large and frightened
her hands deft and sure.
She knows the power of wool.
On the phone
Dandelions
I am speaking to Caracas, British Columbia
Mozambique, Louisianna.
I know the power of words.
It is the only power
I know.
I have forsaken
the maneuvers of lipstick and lingerie.
I have forsaken projectiles
and sharp pointy objects
and all unnecessary damage.
I count breath.
I navigate towards the sure
and steady heartbeat.
It pulses through me
through the rivers and arteries
of our beautiful, besieged planet
and in the second story bedroom
and outside the window
the armies of dandelions
sweep across the fields.
Janet C. Phelan
copyright 2007