A dandelion’s fluff scatters, its seed bolls lifted in wind,
their destinations unknown and rocky, most like.
My neighbor calls again, her words repetitive, aimless
sleepwalker talk, heedless of its rambling ways.
Shall I call a doctor or her son? Who knows which way
our failing bodies will plunge: the long trajectory
or an imminent demise? I wonder how my frame will
fare, what meanderings my mind will undergo.
Will I linger, or will I derail at a sudden stop,
a stalk of grass beneath the mower’s blade?
I watch one pod float along, its cloud aloft,
its last ascent drifting before the fall, its pointed
aril poised to rake the soil. I wish it safe landing,
that its roots grow deep, its leaves jagged.