Dandelions
May 31
1 min read
He handed me dandelions
As though they were treasure won.
Little fists held weeds and sunlight
Gathered golden in the sun.
And I, foolish grown creation, Nearly told him flowers die.
Nearly spoke of worth and value In the language adults buy.
But children know what we abandon
Somewhere on the road to pain:
Anything bestowed with love
Turns to gold in gentle hands again.
-Belle Grooves
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