A child came running to me

With  gifts of weeds

and set them on the picnic table.

There the dandelions were left,

It was not their fault that they were blown in-

a child’s whim to be dropped,

Shrivelled and dried.

these settlers’

stems’ and veins’ ends

were not here, but

in impartial joy-

What am I to say anyway?

That dandelions are intruders, squatters,

I might as well say:

That Father Christmas is myth,

Fairies don’t really exist,

Weeds- do not gift.








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