A Dandelion Still
More restless this than any weed;
The dandelion grows--
It rides the wind with every seed,
Though to where nobody knows.
It might be more inclined to stay
If a rose, or marigold--
Possessed with grandeur such as they,
And as lovely to behold.
So it scatters on the nearest wind,
As it travels where it will--
O'er the hill; around the bend...
Though a dandelion still!
~Mel~
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