Family

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Adults may call me a weed,
But children, and those with children hearts, call me Beautiful.
Barefoot on a spring day they run and frolic in tall grassy fields.
Feeling the cool grass
Under their tender feet,
They bend low to pluck my
Yellow blooms in bunches.
With pride, they present them to their mothers
Who put them in mayonnaise jars.
As if treating them like a rose
In a crystal vase,
They place them on the table as a centerpiece.

Some children carefully bring stems
Bursting with a feathery ball
to their fathers
Who blow and watch the
Flurry of seeds fly.

Like bubbles
My seeds rise on the wind
And dance on the currents
Being carried to other yards,
And other fields
To grow more flowers.
So other children
Can have the joy I bring.

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