Dandelions Will Learn To Love Again

This ornate road
I used to pass by
a hundred of dandelions ago
is filled with warm spots
of sunshine today.

These common flowers
beside this road
are missing the poetry
that has never been there.

Inside my hand
is an hourglass
that ticks away the memories
of the poem you once wrote.

Dandelion is...
Dante and Beatrice Portini --
the way he gazed at her longingly;
an unrequited love.

Ephemeral symphonies
in a summer mist
are the only reminders
of that long ago day
when you watched
the moon-wheel tango
with these dandelions.

You got the urge
to paint them
in summer hues
while they were starlit...

...and when you
walked away,

these dandelions withered.

It's now time
to bury your poetry
in a place where
valleys are filled with
forgotten odes
and lost ballads...
but I will always be loving you --
hoping my poetry
will make these dandelions

bloom again.

This ornate road
I used to pass by
on my way home
takes me back to you.
And when these dandelions sing,
it's like you are here.