I wonder if my legacy
will merely be a faint light
in the peripheral vision
of a passer’s eye or a shadow figure
of a memory, the name on the tip
of a tongue one can’t seem to form.
No matter how many letters I write
to my ten-year-old self she doesn’t
seem to trust she will ever be first in line
because she’s been taught, she’s
supposed to be last.
I am beginning to understand
why I’ve always been in love with dandelions.
They are petaled, defiant sunlight
thriving where nothing else can.
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 4:29 PM UTC
I wonder if my legacy
will merely be a faint light
in the peripheral vision
of a passer’s eye or a shadow figure
of a memory, the name on the tip
of a tongue one can’t seem to form.
No matter how many letters I write
to my ten-year-old self she doesn’t
seem to trust she will ever be first in line
because she’s been taught, she’s
supposed to be last.
I am beginning to understand
why I’ve always been in love with dandelions.
They are petaled, defiant sunlight
thriving where nothing else can.
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