More Truth, Less Metaphor

I have carried infants in my womb.

I have given birth,

but not by choice. I was a mother,

strong as a dandelion

gone to seed

who bows to the wind and lets loose

her offspring to fly,

without thought of her own will.

Some seeds dry out or rot or are eaten;

some take root, out of her sight and touch.

Mother dandelion can only ride the seasons,

blooming, seeding,

and does not grieve the irretrievable

or hate the wind

or wish she were something

other than herself.






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