From Daffodils to Dandelions

In but a slow and steady dirge.
Our sweet song of pity and lament.

Gather our hearts in stages and fragments
And pump forth the blood that is coagulated
And stagnant.

Be it time,
For sands, grains of rice and battery fueled arms only measure what eludes us

And how far we imminently remove ourselves from a moment.

If it weren't for the daffodils,
It would be the Dandelion that brings colour to the summer.

And in this summer, not a flower has been planted in this garden.

Her last march down the aisle bore her no matrimony nor communion,
But solemn prayer as her presence waxed and waned
Like the gibbous moons.

What is a tear, if it is not shed?
What is love, if a heart hasn't bled?


If it weren't for the daffodils,
Her coffin would be bare.

And to her grave...
bearing memorial

Stand the dandelions

for her care