Why can’t I be a dandelion?
So, when they cut me off at the crown
I can grow back up again.
These lil’ buggers have roots down
to the depths of the earth.
They need so little
to rebirth.

I want to be a field
of sunny, yellow kissers.
I would yield
a blanket of flowers
that children could pick
whiling away the afternoon hours.

Perpetuating my seed
in an aerial of cotton spray.
I love it when they’re blowing.
It makes my day
seeing fury fuzzy ***** floating in a marmalade sky,
amongst a backdrop
of formal trees wearing Scottish tweed.
Not bad, I think,
for a common ****.