...
and we held
too tightly
to what the dandelions said
das Pusteblume promised
love and fortune
laughter and pretty boys
...
but their spell weakened
with the icy rain of winter's stay
the tiny chutes of fluff and heartbeats
withered
against that gale of stones
that is the final shudder
of summer's reign
...
these weeds of childhood
the unfulfilled and unrealized
forever sprout
in the remembered past
waiting...
waiting...
to be seized
...
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