Would we think they were beautiful if we didn’t know they were weeds?
by Helen Battersby
A gardener must not love a dandelion.
Its rays must not hook a gardener’s heart
or show themselves as stars upon the hills,
gold on the imperative of green.
A gardener must not love the silken spheres
of one-o’clocks; must not count the hours
to liberate the feathered children,
sown across the sky on wind and breath.
A gardener must not love a dandelion;
must not love the place its children land
to drill insistently within the earth,
mining their crowns of lion’s teeth.
A dandelion just rewards such love
by clinging fiercely to the scruff of life.