While Weeding (Inertia Magazine)

A dandelion’s fluff scatters, its seed bolls lifted in wind,

their destinations unknown and rocky, most like.


My neighbor calls again, her words repetitive, aimless

sleepwalker talk, heedless of their rambling ways.


Shall I call a doctor or her son? Who knows which way

our failing bodies will plunge: the long trajectory


or an imminent demise? I wonder how my frame will

fare, what meanderings my mind will undergo.


Will I linger, or will I derail at a sudden stop,

a stalk of grass beneath the mower’s blade?


I watch one puff pod float along, its cloud aloft,

its last ascent, drifting before the fall, its pointed


aril poised to rake the soil. I wish it safe landing,

that its roots grow deep, its jagged leaves tenacious.