The grey hairs of a dandelion,
Blown to pieces by a fly,
Blindly float beyond their grave,
Then settle down nearby.

Like the grey-haired dandelion,
Dispersed and sprouting new,
I learn to live at wind’s request,
With broken wings I flew.

Nestled in the air a hundred feet from up or down,
I ponder which small fly it was that turned me upside down.
As I safely land amongst a fresh tomato patch,
I thank him for his small mistake–a weed amidst the batch.

The only weed a child picks in bunches and bouquets,
An accidental journey gave me golden hair from greys.