=Dandelions=

Memories of whiteness lay
over the drowsy fields of May,
but the dandelions bloom and share
rare sunbeams as we wake.

The wandering strays remember
fields of violet, green and amber.
But now they warily trample
across cracks of gold on grey.

Do they miss the color of daisies?
Those silly white pale happy faces
nod gently while the wind
whispers promises of heaven.

As the fields begin to stir
with promises of red and purple,
the dandelions pale and tremble,
like silly daisies unintended.

Let the wind steal them away,
perhaps to wander, perhaps to stray.
Let them stay aloft but pray they'll land
where rare sunbeams find their way.