In the palm of my hand,
A dandelion rests,
Whispers of my breath gently caress its delicate form,
Carrying my wishes on wisps of air,
As it dances in the breeze,
Drifting northward,
Like umbrellas soaring with the wind's whims,
In the midst of stormy weather.
As the dandelion seeds float past you,
Spring rushes forth,
Asymphony of senses,
Acknowledging the vibrant season before me,
No matter how many dandelions I blow,
Or how many seeds scatter on the spring breeze,
Each one carries unspoken desires,
The flying dandelion seeds never unveil
The depth of wishes they hold for you, my dearest,
Veiled in silent intentions,
As they soar towards you,
The guardian of spring's essence,
In my world cloaked in autumn's hues.

—ancn.