Dandelion Seeds (Published in Poets Domain 2015)
To a Child
It stands, strange misty globe, above the green.
With round eyes beamed to it, you kneel beside
the perfect, star-filled sphere. In time you lean,
bewitched, to touch its gentle, giving side.
It's gone. Look, there's another--downy grey--
a tiny techno-sculpture, sun-suffused.
It waits for breaths of wind to lift away
a dainty cargo, seeds--like cat hairs--loosed
at last, to sail the cloudscape, light as thought.
Let's help the breeze. Hold carefully, and blow
to see the fairies gambol and cavort.
You watch in awe, your second spring, although
someday there'll be no mystery at all--
you'll romp here and ignore the fluffy ball.
Anne Emerson, March 1995
“Does the gardener need some help?”
She has planted six tubs
with burgundy petunias, carmine fuschias,
golds, whites, and blues.
She has moved October’s pansies –
too vibrant to toss –
and shade’s extra impatiens,
to planters out back
under fresh-leaved trees.
Soft soil’s gentle on hands,
plants in pots, cheerful palettes;
but not on bending back.
“Does the gardener need some hel
“Yes, thank you – water and clean-up
so, I can rest my back.”
He trashes empty flats, small plastic pots;
composts weeds; unwinds a hose; sweeps.
He sprays a deer-proof scent on plants
that have had a haircut.
She muddies in her multi-colors,
sits on steps, feels the joys of work and rainbows.
A dragonfly flits by; a ruby-throat hovers
at Fothergilla catkins.
A scarlet nectar-holder joins the picture.
The yard is dressed.
Anne Emerson, May 2017