Poetry Friday {Fragile, But Holding Together}

      I learn more about God
From weeds than from roses;
      Resilience springing
Through the smallest chink of hope
      In the absolute of concrete….
~Phillip Pulfrey, “Weeds,” Perspectives

Even those of us who are blown apart are stronger than we think.


by Julie Lechevsky

My science teacher said
there are no monographs
on the dandelion.

Unlike the Venus fly-trap
or Calopogon pulchellus,
it is not a plant worthy of scrutiny.

It goes on television
between the poison squirt bottles,
during commercial breakaways from Ricki Lake.

But that’s how life
to my home.

where they make you do
what you don’t want to do.

Moms with Uzis of reproach,

dads with their silencers.
(My parents watch me closely because I am their jewel.)

So no one knows how strong
a dandelion is inside,
how its parts stick together,
bract, involucre, pappus,
how it clings to its fragile self.

Read the rest at Poetry 180.

Dandelions have always been one of my favorite flowers. I kept a dandelion clock, dried in puffball form, for years in a purple plastic box, sealed with tape so no stray breeze would disrupt its perfection. Eventually I felt like it was like cruelly caging something which would prefer to live, so I let it go.

Odd, isn’t it, how when we’re kids, we seek out those dandelion clocks, knot together those golden flower’s stems into chains, but when we’re older, we revile the poor things as weeds. I’m sure that says something about our psyches and the travesty called “growing up.”

But, never mind. The dandelions are tougher than we think. And my faraway friends, who this week abruptly lost uncle and father this week – you, too, are tougher than you realize.

Poetry Friday is at Jama Rattigan’s Alphabet Soup, which means it will be gorgeous and cultured and classy and tasteful. Do drop by.

4 Replies to “Poetry Friday {Fragile, But Holding Together}”

  1. Tanita,

    Death is always a shock (even when expecting it after a long illness), but especially when it comes so suddenly. I’m sorry for their loss.

    Dandelions are sort of like poetry. As children we play with language like magic flowers, then as grown-ups, we view language as difficult terrain filled with weeds (dandelions).

    Laura Evans
    all things poetry

  2. Yes. Those dandelions were beloved until I started to plant flower beds. I try not to fetter my daughter in her dandelion-clock blowing joy, but I do encourage her to blow into fields, not yards.

    I am sorry that the faraway friends have to endure the shock and grief of sudden death. Blessings to them.

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