In Between the Dandelions

In between the dandelions, she built worlds

with her words,

Strung together and braided the way her great-grandmother did her hair.

Swiftly and tightly woven.

Golden buds with stems of celadon,

A crown more precious than one made of emeralds and rubies made her the Queen of all her worlds.

Born of imagination,

with her words,

strung together.

Weaving misadventures with all the lives she would live,

if only she didn't have to choose

or

if when the clock stopped cuckoo-ing, it meant what it said

and she could just remain in between the dandelions

painting with words and writing with stick figures on the pages of a phone book,

in the land time forgot to call back-

Imagi-nation

where her words shone, more precious than emeralds,

strung together

woven

with the patience of a great-grandmother,

wondering

Will anyone remember the dreams she left behind

when she sculpted their worlds with her love

Like mudpies set to dry on drizzly day

Imperfectly perfect,

Impulsively careful,

Instinctively different.

Her words bleeding ruby red,

strung together and tied to the sails of a lullaby,

Rock the cradle but not the boat.

Sopranos sing this song in unison.

She held on to the melody but lost the words,

she's out of step

Somewhere in between the dandelions.