A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. -- Alice in Alice in Wonderland I’ve now grown small enough to slip beside the grass blades in the lawn and near the glassy filigree of dandelions gone to seed. Twelve dandelions cluster round. Apostolic. Done. Abundant teachers. I tread gently, attentively: The lacy pappus ring around the flower head. The stem, a swan’s neck tilting with the breeze. The view from here? A widening ladder of the leaves. The toothy angles of a single edge. Would it hold me if I tried to climb? The view from here? A prophecy of how light, wind, and earth conspire to play their role in dandelions’ flourishing— —then aids them in their vanishing. Their final legacy? Whirlwind of seed. I want to rest my head against that stem and hear the final waters flow from root to petal head. I want to taste that deep green leaf that sways beneath this open sky, to honor that skeletal second leaf that looks more like a starling’s wing than member of the Aster family. Drink Me, I was told. And so I have slaked my thirst on nature’s unending variety. And done so gratefully. Far above, the seed head’s breathless orb —a nebulae eviscerated by a breeze. A whispering bridge. A silver salvo. A dawn of stars.
Copyright 2020 Sharon Fagan McDermott