Chosen

January 21, 2011
Entwined in blades of grass,
Hidden in the crowd,
A weed rests, rooted in the ground.
Dense dirt near the stem’s base
Allows for no escape.

Raindrops gently trickle from the sky,
Bouncing off the petals.
The iridescent marbles roll down
The crease of each leaf,
And spill onto the floor.
A pool of water forms at the base,
Which slowly seeps into the damp earth.

A boy with a red baseball cap
Bounces along on a nearby dirt path,
Splattering mud across his sneakers.
A girl trails not far behind,
Gazing around the lost meadow.

He glimpses a flash of yellow
Out of the corner of his eye,
And detours through the grassy throng.
He passes by a rosebush,
Dripping in crimson.
He bends forward,
His face parallel to the soil,
Shabby grass tickling his nose.

He slips his palms through the tangle of green,
Making a partition.
Grasping an unseen object,
He swiftly rips the dandelion from the grip of the earth.
Wrapped in his fingers,
The golden weed dangles.
With a network of roots,
Clumps of dirt clutch the tiny veins.

He walks up to the girl,
Eyes trailing on the ground.
A blush creeps across his cheeks,
Radiating a warmth.
He lifts his left limb,
Holding out his offering.





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