I walk out the door past the dandelions which are there every day.
Bud, flower, and white-down seeded blossom side by side.
Like botanical drawings: leaf, flower fruit.
Here at the equator, the lion’s tooth never dies back under snow,
As back home the yellows of August whiten and blow away with breath.
My father used to gather them with me and we would wait
Until the very moment to exhale showed that the summer was over.
They would fly away on the breeze. Trying to catch them
Was my first lesson in letting go when the time comes.
I let go of him when he blew his head off with the shotgun
An act which my mind forever conflates with the white seeds
Of a dandelion floating away in the Fall, unknown aim, unknown
Fertility of sand, stone, soil, who knows where they will fall?
I know the dandelions here will keep blooming and blowing
Long after I am gone. This is the center of the world.