By Emilee Petersmark

You were the dandelion.

Out of the blue you sprung up

in the healthy green heart

of my painstakenly-tended garden,

a tiny yellow bud

among the lush red poppies

and velvety-blue irises.

The better part of me knew you were

a weed,

and I knew you could not stay

lest you terrorize my beautiful flowers;

yet my hand

hesitated,

hovering just over your frayed, fuzzy petals.

Vulnerable and harmless were you then,

a single lion head

dwarfed by the magnificent snapdragons

that surrounded you like an ominous pack.

In the end you were allowed to stay,

a less than amiable guest,

a weed too pretty to be a weed in a garden full of color.

You entranced me--

I couldn't see past the promise of soft cotton seedlings;

You were a friendly face,

an unimposing golden smile

shadowing a pair of vicious-looking hands.

And then with a breath of wind and a puff of feathery seeds,

you spread yourself wide,

consuming my garden

with a carpet of angry saffron blossoms

springing from spiked, crabby bases,

an army of dandelions rising instantly from the ground

to choke my beloved flowers.

Now as I sleep

I'm turmoiled in regret

that I had not plucked you from the earth

and staved your invasion when the opportunity was clear,

thus saving my ruined garden

from your heavy, white-rooted clutches;

know that if my veins were cut,

so poisoned was I by your espionage and conquring

that I'm sure I'd bleed

yellow,

a friendly, misleading dandelion-blonde

as bright as the day

you consumed me

and everything I had loved.

You were the dandelion.