the cliche came,
like a dressy-casual font on a repurposed pallet:
“no wishes without the weeds”
a statement easy to swallow,
like a vanilla latte with coconut milk.
sidling up close to their cohorts:
“no rain, no rainbow”
“no strength without the battle”
“no mud, no lotus”
there it was,
a field dappled with golden spheres.
puff balls illuminated
as though each had a light
turned on from within.
all week, i’ve had flocks of children
reference these as Wishes.
not as dandelion heads,
not as weeds,
not as unwanted…
as Wishes.
they’ve picked them carefully
and practiced breathing out rather than in;
they’ve picked them like a cat swiping at a toy
and noticed that they came up bare;
they’ve kicked them
and stomped them
and ran without regard
through an otherwise vacant lot of them.
with the sun blazing,
a sea of white hope
requiring nothing but some kind of movement,
our Wishes were set free.
do it gently,
do it wildly,
do it intentionally,
do it without a thought…
just move
and
the
Wishes
disperse
and what happens next is no longer.
the setting sun brought changing pause.
i didn’t set even one free.
they were so beautiful in waiting,
soaking up warm light,
changing every moment at the sun’s moving.
there is no doubt in their future
and for that golden evening,
they rested.
and were admired
and appreciated
and forever remembered…
Wishes in waiting.
and as i walked
away from them,
the clear windows
glowed
in agreement.
