My favorite flower is a dandelion.
I like them while they're yellow, fluffy,
and covering the green ground like vermin
in an infected house. I like them while
you can pluck them from the soil
and rub them on the sidewalk
to leave grubby sun-colored residue
on the concrete like crayon wax.
I like them while people talk
and tell me they're weeds.
So I can say, "No,
no, they aren't weeds
because I would rather they grow than the grass.
I would rather they grow than my hair
or my fingernails. I'd shave my head
and break off each nail at the nub,
fingers like pebbles in the river,
just to see the dandelions in springtime."
Tires run over them in the driveway,
and they flatten like precious flowers
cared for in a book. They leave an imprint:
a tiny blazing yellow star,
alive and smiling
on the pavement.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem