What a dandelion seed I am -
to have torn myself loose from one lion's tooth
of a home, an expired floret, to try to be
something new, to sail my achene-ship
of hope on these navy currents
of this ocean of a breeze.
And I will travel so far from what I have known,
from my blowball, my white-blind clock
to the destruction of only the same time
across the glide of wind which, unstoppable
in each lift, will unreach me yet another jolt
further from my starting place.
A pappus-astronaut, I am unmoored
in this infinity of air, and will fall
on unchosen ground to whatever furrow finds me,
to wonder what might unearth
from this shallow grave of despair,
but the clone of my own vacant stem
that will flow with identical milky tears
and duplication of yellow suns,
for it all to be a hall of mirrors,
to be again what I used to be
when I used to be me.