Revisionist Poetry – Blowing Away, v.3

The dandelion keeps time with the wind —
a bright clock with its hands undone,
a paper moon that peels itself apart:
each seed a tiny bell, a hush that falls.

They lift like hushes in a narrow sky,
parachutes stitched of down and air,
spinning away from the hollowed crown
to write new margins on the field below.

What remains is a lacework of stems,
sun-thin and patient in the late light.
Not death so much as an arranged unmaking —
an inventory of what the flower gave.

In that small, scattering labor is a promise:
the world refills itself one quiet blow at a time.
We stand and trace the white constellations,
learning again how brief bright is, and how to let go.