pretty pollen

During my recess days,

I would plot my one free hour to frolic and play.

Delicate it to the large field of flowers that festered;

and all the creatures that crawled and flied in unity together.

I wanted to be all with one,

soaked in grass stains and rays of the sun.

Out of all of the choices of candied blossoms, I chose:

the enthusiastic yellow that incited my eye the most.

A dandelion was a weed to many-but I embraced it with grace. 

I played in its chalky pollen and smeared its yellow on my face.

It’s buttery gloss stained my fragile cheeks, 

while I laid in the grass and communicated with the meek.

The bees, butterflies and beetles that slowly creeped close,

whispered sweet secrets of a world I wanted most.

Where I could be small forever and free to roam.

Underneath the paint of pollen, 

these friends helped me feel less alone. 

That was until the day I got stung, 

brutal and between the eyes, no remorse for what it had done.

And by that point, the dandelions had began to turn gray.

The once naive floral facade, 

had matured into a ghost meant to be blown away.

And as I held onto the fragile stem, 

wishing for the next season to blossom again. 

I inhaled a breath from a source deep within,

and let my exhale carry seeds of strength to begin again.  

I give my gullibility grace,

Aware of the countless times I have been stung in the face. 

I do not blame my intrinsic need,

to bask in pollen and slurp nectar so sweet. 

To love what feels good and to embrace the unknown,

I trust in mother nature’s fluctuation and flow. 

What is painful is temporary, and what is good will only grow.