Thistle wishes weigh heavier
than dandelions, though time is ticking
and it takes a breath, already taken away
for the down to rise up.
I see this world waking, stretching, aging.
I notice change,
like a cooing grandmother
remarking on the unremarkable
inevitable growth of child to man.
All ages show on the spiny stems
confused by climactic shifts and switches -
punkish purple, aged sepia
and all stages in between.
Tomorrow their aged grizzled heads will be no more,
heavy hopes in search of legacy,
wishing on the wind to prolong memories.