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,
and does not grieve the irretrievable
or hate the wind
or wish she were something
other than herself.