A dandelion first looks like a sun
that’s blooming in a universe of grass,
although it’s small, unlike a cosmic one,
and not made out of blazing plasmic gas
but little yellow petals for its rays,
that don’t give off a solar heat or light
yet still are worthy of a poet’s praise,
though they will not illuminate a night.
But when its tiny garden sun is gone,
the dandelion forms a galaxy,
a globular ensemble on the lawn,
a cotton ball of stars where I can see,
as William Blake said in his Earthly hour,
the heavens shining in a wild flower.
Mario A. Pita