Welcome back!

I missed you!

Here's an old poem I found again recently. It reads a little...off...to me, but there's something about it I quite like.

Dandelion Horde

As he dreams about the dandelion horde,
he sips his wine and remembers:
the golden mob undulating toward him,
his frantic breathing, stumbling;
he scarred his knee that day.

A sudden insight into the dark and seedy side of nature,
the danger that lurks behind any sign that says,
don’t pick the dandelions.

But after the adrenaline -
rush to the car, stem the blood spill from his veins -
he watches the dandelions.
How they socialize,
how the brilliance of the sun is reflected in every dandelion,
even in a horde.