Sabrina Barrella
I am a dandelion, a plant with subjective
beauty, worth determined by unfaithful
hands, a vermin to the garden inundated
with roses, thought deadly to the naïve
man, armed with a trowel and wacker,
poked and prodded by the thorns
of my neighbors, a reputation
with an unknown beginning,
a new face, a blank and innocent
mind, a little hand lifting me high toward
our shared provider, a breeze whisking
away what I once held dear, a newfound
lightness, a mother slapping the wrist
of her son, a look of despair and dumbfoundedness
as he cries, But Mama, that’s my favorite flower.