Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.2

The dandelion — a yellow clock wound down,
a pale globe drifting on the wind.
Its seeds, small hushes with parachutes,
spin off on invisible ropes.

The bloom has emptied; gold loosened into air,
a lace of stems in autumn’s thin light.
Yet in that unbuttoning it plants insistence —
a promise of soft landings, of green.

We watch the white sails map the afternoon,
and remember how brief bright can be,
how small abandon becomes a kind of grace:
to let go, and to let new things grow.