My house is sprouting dandelion bouquets,
small, droopy yellows lend light to dull surfaces.
Plucked with serious intent,
handed over with grins that clear
the tracks of my darkened trail.
Is there any way to resist these creatures
with stained sunshine
on their hands and noses?
“These are for you.”
Doomsday when I cease receiving
when I curse their belligerent patterns on my lawn
and moan about a sore back and a rusty trowel.
Copyright © Anne Langford
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