Sweltering in the summer sun
of a dandelion snow storm.
This child stands
with hands and arms
in crucifix against the breeze
which is laden with clocks.
I close my eyes to guard against
far-from-frozen flakes
that might force the use
of spittle on a corner
of a handkerchief,
or suffer scutty blinks.
But out of wonder,
I cannot resist this sight;
this Biblical flight from nature.
Unlike the thistle down
or gossamer thread
of rosebay willow herb,
these parachutes float
uniform and upright:
regimental wonders, that glide,
though do not fight.
Dandelion children,
cast out kindly
to find a home,
in pavement cracks
or to be hoed
from manicured beds.
How many will grow?
Like grains that land
upon fertile fields
or blow to barren
concrete streets:
each as the fabled mustard seed.
They fly without help
of human hands,
save those of children
who flap with joy
and toy with nature,
with nature's thanks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem