Dandelion by Julie Lechevsky

Dandelion

by Julie Lechevsky

My science teacher said

there are no monographs

on the dandelion.

Unlike the Venus fly-trap

or Calopogon pulchellus,

it is not a plant worthy of scrutiny.

It goes on television

between the poison squirt bottles,

during commercial breakaways from Ricki Lake.

But that's how life

parachutes

to my home.

Home,

where they make you do

what you don't want to do.

Moms with Uzis of reproach,

dads with their silencers.

(My parents watch me closely because I am their jewel.)

So no one knows how strong

a dandelion is inside,

how its parts stick together,

bract, involucre, pappus, 

how it clings to its fragile self.

There are 188 florets in a bloom,

which might seem a peculiar number,

but there are 188,000 square feet

in the perfectly proportioned Wal-Mart,

which allows for circulation

without getting lost.

I wish I could grow like a dandelion

from gold to thin white hair,

and be carried on a breeze to the next yard. 

The trueness of this poem struck me. I would like to construct a book project that illustrates the many facets of this poem. The strength of a dandelion, how tough this disregarded weed is and later on the ethereal nature of each seed blowing off into the wind, free to travel wherever the wind may blow it.