Dandelions

After the cling of roots and then the “pock”

when they gave way

                                     the recoil up the hand

               was a small shock

of emptiness beginning to expand.

Milk frothing from the stems. Leaves inky green

and spiked.

                      Like blissed-out childhood play

              turned mean

they snarled in tangled curls on our driveway.

It happens still. That desolating falling

shudder inside

                            and then our neighborhood

                seems only sprawling

loops...like the patterns eaten on driftwood:

even the home where I grew up (its smell

of lingering

                      wood-smoke and bacon grease)

             seems just a shell

of lathe and paper. But this strange release

follows: this tinge like silver and I feel

the pull of dirt

                            again, sense mist uncurling

               to reveal

no architecture hidden behind the world

except the stories that we make unfolding:

as if our sole real power

                                                    were the power

             of children holding

this flower that is a weed that is a flower.