baby dandelions

golden like the sun

blooming in the spring

till they turn to fuzz

flying in the wind. 

what our parents call weeds

what we called flowers when we were young. 

seems like such a sweet song

but it's never to be sung. 

making up bouquets on cool summer nights 

then blowing out our wishes while watching them take flight. 

a memory of our childhoods

but when the sun comes to rise

we see the truth

beneath illuminating skies:

what we thought were flowers

beautiful, bright and bold

were just weeds in disguise

their story untold.