Branches packed with an audience of birds watch as
a small boy picks a dandelion that has gone to seed,
a snow-globe of wishes waiting to be shaken by breath,
plucked free of a yellowing field
quietly losing the strength of summer,
while waiting trees drop their leaves
like so many rusty yawns.
He examines it carefully for a while,
twirling it slowly in his small soft hand,
surveying all the individual possibilities
precisely attached to the fragile green pole,
potentials that elicit wants he hadn’t known a minute ago
desires tumbling out of somewhere in between his throat and core,
a skate board, a movie, a trip, a something, a somewhere.
I try to suggest a different wish,
“Why don’t you wish for a day exactly like this one?”
bursting with fall color but still warm,
the sky filled with puffed clouds like cotton
stuffed in the bottle of our lives
to keep us from rattling around too hard,
a day to spend quietly together,
just you and I, enjoying our gift of time,
with no where we have to be. But, somehow,
he has already learned he should want more.
He gathers all the wind that he has in him,
and lets the force of it hit this small piece of earth.
And isn’t this is what we keep repeating?
One generation following the next,
as we take to the wind for a short while,
forgetting what the wish was,
thinking the breath is our own.
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