Here is the perfect spot to plant my longing;
my sparkly eyed consumer label dreams,
my middle of the night sweaty waking yearning.
This is the sky under which I will bury my idols and egos
my fantasy thems and selves.
These are the clouds that will witness the the ritual
of one tiny human woman
sprawled crying into the soil to bid adieu
to my misconceptions of the needs that I have,
my confusion over which route to the big pickle is paved just for me.
These are the under-rated beauteous dandelions that nod in agreement with my intentions
and sanction my blessing.
They will turn to puff
spread their song
and never breathe a word of this.
