This morning
This morning they were yellow. Their heads stood high above the pale brown grass, regally crowned without a hint of wind or breeze to stir them. And the shadow of the wall grew shorter, sunlight hotter, and they closed their eyes. This morning I tried to catch them, tug them, pull them by their roots before the noon, because if I let those golden crowns turn to halos the neighbors might despair of me. This morning it was hot out there. I weeded in the shade of the wall, then ventured out then hurried back again. And the dandelions, all those that escaped, are waiting still to wave at tomorrow's sun.