I whisper to this dandelion,
Cradled in hands like dead spiders.

My voice scratches the air,
Etching into those weightless seeds
Like a laser
Carves hieroglyphics
Into a grain of rice.

I trust in these little parachute soldiers,
The special forces brigade
Of a small forest nation.

I live in fear of the Easterly wind,
For these seeds will come loose
Against my will.

They will not be borne.
They will weigh leaden
Against the air.

They will sink,
Like so many trembling eyelids.

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