The Dandelion
I am a flower when you are two.
When you are four, you make headband chains out of me,
Using my stems, which have a pungent smell.
At five you are told I am a weed; a death word to me.
You don’t care. You still love me.
You especially love the way you can blow my crown
Off in frilly wispy white flakes
after my yellow crown
Turns white.
You still love me
until you grow up,
And maybe later,
Some of you.
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