What have we here, this homely weed,
She bearing only hardy seed?
This scourge, her unborn children fly,
While other flowers bloom and die.
Oh fuzzy mop, now gray and bare,
Brazen hussy with leaves to spare,
Undaunted, give eternal pledge,
There through the thicket, through the hedge,
Seeing in the distance gleaming,
Headdress bright with color beaming.
Truth to tell you with all my heart,
Example set will faith impart
For little known to lass and lad,
This sprightly growth fills mission glad.
For other use her leaves are meant,
To other fields her missiles sent,
To feed the likes of you and me,
And cause wild birds to chirp with glee.
Gourmet critics, it’s sad to think,
Speak sharply of her wine to drink.
This little flower we term a weed,
Indicts a flaw one ought to heed.
Primping and preening, comely face,
Outrageous garment, conscious grace,
These qualities which we presume
Breed valued class or use illume,
Regal bearing, manner of speech,
Are ofttimes used to judgement reach.
How many weeds disguised by time
So lonesome wane and pass their prime
To linger by the roadside’s bend,
And waste away without a friend?
Teach me well, this rule to define,
I’ve learned from you mute dandelion.
Claire V. Bogdanos 