A dandelion wants to be an oak,
absurdly hopeless though its wish may be,
and while this seems the setup for a joke,
it’s not: the fool I’m speaking of is me.
I dreamed of growing lofty for an eon,
a home to forest creatures in each limb,
but I turned out to be a garden peon,
my stem, no giant trunk, short-lived and slim.
Most see me as a menace – ugly weed,
with nothing like an oak to offer – shade,
or acorns to a hungry squirrel in need,
just a simple blossom quick to fade.
And yet my yellow bloom is like a sun.
Is it not splendid, though a little one?
Mario A. Pita