Widows and Orphans

by Susan Comninos

for weeds gone blowzy

Dandelions don’t have petals
Plucked to feel, or not
For your palm. Just

As a spit of chance, they
Navigate the air,
Shirred, sired—

Held, held, held,
Then bossed: done. Sent
To the tindered

Lawn, the burnt, brown
Loam. Dirt: do it. Now
See what’s been puffed. Play gone.

Published on June 16, 2015

2015-06-16T05:00:00+00:00