Weeds

What happens to a dandelion in a graveyard?

Surrounded by rotting flesh and stagnant odors,

her roots intertwine with death

as she shrouds herself with intentional disregard.

She feeds on the deceased,

metabolizing the hatred, the angst, the pain,

the silence

that burdened the child of their youth.

She bears the weight of the catharsis of death.

Wrapping their bodies in the linen of her essence,

roots sheltering their skulls, mimicking the locs of the living.

She becomes a product of the dead,

she makes them living.

She multiplies, magnifies, immortalizes.

She flourishes.

Her yellow becomes the wind that carries the breath of the departed

so that they may whisper into the ears of their loved ones,

once more.

You may see a plague of “weeds”

but I see a blanket of hope.