Dandelion Highway

Cars inch forward, wheels revolving on black lined pavement.

Painted lines, loosely followed, lead toward the city expressway ahead.

Along the walkway, tree-lined promenades, yellow florets spring from brown dirt pits.

Close to moving cars, feet away from human stomps, the yellow blossoms float atop the patchwork green grass.

There is no snow, no science to disperse seed to the wind.
Only color, a vibrant yellow, and occasional hands to pick you from the roots.

Some will stamp you where you grow.
Others will pick you up, smell and go.

Some eyes watch you dance above the evergreen blades of green
and know your secrets, as you grow there, under heel and toe.

Perhaps the lines of moving machine goers see you at attention,
your yellow hats adorned for springtime promenades, of baby carriages and bicycles, chess matches and lover embraces, joggers, walkers, and wheelchair riders.

Perhaps the walkers and riders don't see you as a weed,
for you know to grow, know how to thrive, how to stay alive.
Even as the walkers and riders move ever so quickly forward, and die.

For me, the dandelion highway makes today.

The color flashes faslt like fire in my eye. It mesmerizes as I ride.

Perhaps others see the same as me, besides.
Perhaps they will see them, at least, before they die.