The weeds remind me
you’ve been dead so long
the river changed direction
by two feet
I pull up dandelions in your name
there’s sweetness in the tiny
yellow petals after they’ve changed.
Their seed, stuck on the breeze.
I fill first, the empty paper cups
each delicate drifting gray and white
spore clings together
I fill jars and jars and jars
I can’t see anything
unless it’s through the connected cotton in glass prisons
They can’t fly, nor escape
should i plant a dandelion garden
it may be a good resting place
a time to pass away the day,
watch the clouds
while the other flowers and trees are blank?