Dandelion

January 28, 2004

I watched it sprout
from a patch of ground,
lifeless, except this shoot
of deep, deep green.
Out of barren soil
it came up quite strong.
Deep below the ground
the roots fought to break
the solid mass of dry dirt.
Little by little, the green
grew, somewhat slower
than flowers in softer soil.
Still, it came, resisting
the bugs that tried to feast,
cracking a tougher soil
than had to, the other seeds.
Shallow, sporadic, summer rain
did not cultivate ease.
Still, it came up alright.
I watched as days passed
and greener sprouts around
all flowered profusely in
comfort of wetter ground.
Finally, the blossom budded
from that lone, toughened
plant in its barren land.
Slowly, that tiny bud
crept up to cyan skies
in a wave of a drought
and heat of a heavy sun.
Yellow tufts, a million petals
uncurled, grew thick,
and burst vivid out of
the gray, dry sandy clay
in a spot in the garden
where no one else looked.
In an awed silence
I watched, but knew
this plant was tougher
and would conquer
my garden with its seeds.
The tough genes would take over
the easier areas next summer.
I pulled at the plant,
and most of it gave.
A tiny sliver of root
clung to a rock somewhere
below that hardened clay.
In a few days, I saw
the familiar green leaves,
and again I dug deep
to take it out.
In spite of this,
I was forced to watch
as the green leaves
grew right back each time.
And in the center
of the pointy foliage,
one small, green bud
refused to be denied.
Then it sprang out yellow
just like it had a week ago.
This one flower, so hated,
didn't notice it wasn't wanted.
In spite of every little
and large challenge, it grew
and ignored all else.
And one day, I realized
that plant was just
like my own barren start,
in a world that seemed bent
to a task to remove me.
So, the more I watched,
the more I loved
this hated plant.