Your greens make an early spring salad
With vinegar and bacon dressing
Then your flowers of gold
Erupt in the yard like beacons
For the bees to find and fill their pollen bags.
My father gathered the blossoms
Cutting off the yellow to color
His homemade “dandy lion” wine.
Which he stored in the cool cellar
Where the shelves were lined
With bottles of the spirituous nectar;
The tint varied from pale yellow
To a deeper hue the color of taxis.
The pale ones resulted from the boys
Pouring off a touch and replacing it
With clear water, being careful not to
Disturb the dust on the bottles.
Now in suburbia the residents
Spend hundreds of dollars
To eradicate this beautiful plant
Creating boring sameness
Through their pristine neighborhoods.
But one small piece of property
Where the owner remembers
The beauty of the dandelion,
The plant survives and flourishes
To produce bursts of seeds
That float with the slightest breeze
And settle hither and yon
Where they punctuate homogeneity
With doubloon colored treasures.