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And We Call Them Weeds

Don’t be down on dandelions;
I’m not.
They have something to say,
And they mean a lot.
One morning you look out,
And guess what appears?
All you can see are the little dears.

They pop up their colors
In bright yellow and green.
They’re so happy,
Never intending to be mean.
Dandelions were imported,
Those versatile gems,
By colonists who cooked
And fermented even their stems.
How graceful bobbing their heads
In tune with the wind,
Knowing not how soon
Their flock to be thinned.
Enjoy their short company,
Who sleep from dusk to light.
And before you cut them all down, Bid them all a “Good night!”

—Pearl Joffe