When I die,
bury me in
the dandelion fields.

Place my marker
atop the hill,
and when you visit,
as the trees turn
and the leaves fall,
a gentle breeze
will blow my
downy seeds
against your cheeks.

you will realize,
for good or bad,
that dandelions
refuse to die,

just like me.

©️ 2019.

I can’t decide if this is hopelessly cynical or cynically hopeful.

2 thoughts on “Dandelions

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