With a stir of honey and cinnamon,
the tiny girl hands a small clump of yellow
to the woman sitting on a park bench. Smiling. Lisping.
Looking upward toward another existence—
it seems possible no hour will be like this again.
The woman thanks her and asks
why she’s receiving this small corsage of grace.
Because I’m your hero
and you’re my beautiful princess.
The afternoon slowly blinks clouds;
blending earth, air, to dusk—
and like so many simple revelations
the status of dandelions transcends that of all other flowers.
This is their togetherness—a sonal refrain, a supple esplanade;
seen as an infinite pulling back
to reveal that meeting in heaven
is a way of saying
please remember me
when the bouquet is faded and gone.