baby dandelions

golden like the sun, 

blooming in the spring, 

till they turn to fuzz, 

flying in the wind. 

what our parents call weeds, 

what we called flowers when we were young. 

seems like such a sweet song, 

but it's never to be sung. 

making up bouquets on cool summer nights, 

then blowing out our wishes while watching them take flight. 

a memory of our childhoods,

but when the sun comes to rise,

we see the truth

beneath illuminating skies:

what we thought were flowers,

beautiful, bright and bold,

were just weeds in disguise,

their story untold.