There are nights I don’t think

of dandelions, when I close

my eyes on them and their needs,

more vigorous than my own.

In the mornings I’m surprised

again at yellow sirens tight against

the lawn. And days later when feathery

orbs ride the air like incantations.

Even these vanish, and only withy

stems, fields of stems as far

as I can see, sway to music that haunts

my night. I awaken too slowly, too

late. From the grass a trill of gold,

a pulse of unbounded light.