It was winter, and I ceased to remember.
No dandelion blooms in December.
Their presence hadn't been seen since fall,
but they were prominent, I now recall.
At spring's first touch I saw the color,
even yellower than butter.
My heart began to flutter at one's wake.
This flower was alive, not a plastic fake.
Then everywhere they seemed to appear---
the color of sun, the color of cheer.
Overwhelmingly, they possessed every lawn,
greeting each peculiar dawn.
As summer's sun began to blare,
their distinguished color dissolved into air.
Then something curious began to settle.
A magician's act dressed each faded petal
with points as lovely as songbirds nearby,
soft and clustered as lashes of the eye.
I could make a wish to blow them away,
but they'll leave more remnants as they stray.
They'll sprout with the sun and a soil that's wet.
Maybe I could never forget.