Taraxacum,” Austin Bauer

Austin Bauer

O friend of mine, achene of the same clock, we’ve grown to fly upon the wind and take to the sky like elegant paratroopers; silent, like owls in the night. You knew me in my youth; you watched me as I grew into my pappus, and you into yours. And here we are, floating on a spring breeze, you into your future, me into mine. I hope to see you bloom into all the yellowness I know you can be. Maybe, someday, we will meet again; children will rub us against their tiny chins—buttercups, they call it, a way to know if you’re in love. Or, maybe someone will harvest us and join us together in a wine—a sweet elixir of oranges, spices, and sugar. Only the wind can make a future like that.