The Lady and the Dandelion
Natalie Crick

In Winter,
Violets rise weakly

Laden with snow.
Her fingertips are nimble,

Lips whispering of
Moon flowers,

The languid bend in the river,
Damp, ripe wind through tall grass.

Hope hums inside:
A busy hive of bees.

She is fearful,
Waiting for the sting,

Eyes fixed on the sun,
Kneading the day’s heat

Into flame. The air
Has been leafed gold
And electric,
The Earth fallen out of sight,

Leaving a dandelion
Half-wished away.

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