"I am a child in a field picking dandelions and popping their heads off toward your general direction.
I'm too young to care about the grass stains on my white dress and
I'm too naive to understand that these flowers we are picking are just weeds.

I know that in a matter moments I will leave the field and be an uninvited guest at a funeral again. In a room clouded with sadness, I'm weighed down with fear.
I'm standing next to a coffin, wearing a clean black dress, looking at the excessive flowers; remembering a time that I was happy.

Remembering what it was like to be here,

In the field, dissecting those dandelions to retrieve the white milky guts that our grandmother's promised us was medicine.
We are simply children in the grass rubbing weeds all over our scrapes and cuts, watching, - waiting for the magic.
Our eyes full of wonder,
our throats full of laughter
our hearts full of joy.

But now we are in a cemetery full of headstones and regret

my heart is full of a grief
My throat is full of lumps
And - I know, there is an emptiness in my eyes.

Defeat.

I see the widow weep as the coffin is lowered into a uniformed hole, along with it ; my hope for a simpler life. I see her sandal crush a dandelion as she buries her head into a friendly shoulder. Oh, what I would give to collect the milk,

what I would give to have magic again. "

Mae