Thursday, September 11, 2008

The last child

A word starts small. The child,
dreaming nightly of bird-flight and the
cool moist night air on her cheeks, awakens

despondent each morning in the same stale
nightie and twisted sheets. Nobody understands
why she cries when she wakes, nor

why her drawings are all of trees, sky
mountains and open air, though she lives

in this city choked with high-rises thick
like weeds blocking the light.

Somewhere inside this child, there is a story
which starts with a word, which starts
small. Like dandelions breaking

tenaciously through pavement, each dream
pushes its tender head softly and persistently
against the unyielding concrete of reality,

one day sure to find light.

Rachel Westfall
September 11, 2008


Kyddryn said...

I do not weed out the dandelions, nor spray them with liquid death - rather, I wait until they have gone grey-bearded and fluff-headed and, with the small boy alongside, bend to gently blow the fairy fluff into the wind, helping it along to new worlds in some other part of the yard.

Small boy blows and blows ad races the little aerialists on the wind, and I never frown when more patches of joyful yellow pop up come spring. To think, some folks think they are weeds.

I like the thought of dreams-as-dandelions, persistent in the cracks, widening them until greater green can grow through.

When we blow the seeds, are we spreading dreams, giving them ground to place roots in, to grow and blow and go farther still?

Shade and Sweetwater,

RachelW said...

Kyddryn, I love the image of you, smally boy and the dandelions communing. My children are also friends of dandelions. And the rabbits and guineas love them, too! A happy lawn is one full of wildflowers.