A Dandelion’s Metanoia

Spring is born. The exhaling of winter
Into the thick grace of flowers and weeds,
Who grow from memory: silent splinter
Of inheritance, exulted crowds of seeds
One by one leaping from their old mothers
As unique and universal as Mars
And as broken and complete as lovers
Abandoned to the winter full of stars—
Their darkness-filled history like torches
In corridors with muted, longing flames—
Half-beaten, half-holy with scorches,
Forgetting all glory in frosted chains,
That breathed them in and smothered them in cold
To try and break them or make them be bold.

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