I myself am nothing more
than a dream of a dandelion seed
which floats endlessly onward
without teleology.

How I envy the river which bathes me,
for what do rivers know of want?
When she bleeds she overflows,
perhaps that is all she has to teach.

Yet before the river, I am but a
eager disciple of winter,
of greens turnt to whites,
of grey migrating geese.

Though first I am nothing more
than a dream of a dandelion seed,
which is to say not lost,
but wandering without aim.