Written by: Aayotrie Chaudhary - 27019, Grade IX
Posted on: 22 December, 2023
Dandelions are weeds,
Flourished in fertilized lawns,
Sprawled all over the soil.
Like most plants, easy to be grown in the right soil,
Easy to be picked.
Painting meadows with glances of gold,
Hidden beneath the multihued foliage,
They are denounced from the viewer's eye.
Taken out of the spotlight, they wilt,
Wrinkled up till all dry.
Said to be luck,
If blown in one go,
Each seedling floating off,
Leaving the stem to be
Left behind.
Adaptive and proud,
They prosper in all of Mother Nature’s lush,
Resilient, yet discarded,
They represent the glow of the sun,
Burning with great flurry.
Blown and used,
The lion’s teeth have petals such as thousands of feathers,
A hope outcries to be healed,
Healed from certain doom.
Being picked only causes more pressure.
Alas, if taken off the spot in which they grow,
Out of the sunlight and into once darkness,
The life of a dandelion starts faltering.
Only hoped to be loved,
Yet forever in despair of being a weed among floral bouquets.
