The dandelions seemed to have changed overnight.
They are no longer the bright yellow little suns
which once painted the boulevard in a solid golden hue
but are now orbs of a thousand white seeds.
Waiting.
Waiting for winds of change to come upon them
to blow them in every which direction
carried by the currents of life somewhere entirely different.
Sometimes I long to be like the dandelion.
To burst into something different,
into a thousand little parts
to travel upon the winds of change to a new world
drifting slowly over the earth.
To plant myself and grow again in the warm sun.
Maybe someday I will be like the dandelion
as for now I stay planted.
