Indigenous

dandelions. reimagine 

them beautiful;

pops of bright whimsically scattered,

comic relief against manicure, monochrome;

scrappy upstarts drawing eye in delight,

instead of chest-heaves of exasperation.  

years ago, while i weighed death by beheading or poison,

my flowerchild daughter interceded, challenging custom

and defending their worth;

i stayed the massacre until after she left.

now, in a different yard facing the same rebel army

a dotted sea of yellow raised middle fingers,

the ghost-voice of my father cautions they will spread,

and through my daughter, i answer let them.