Sister of a Dandelion

I wonder if my legacy

will merely be a faint light

in the peripheral vision

of a passer’s eye or a shadow figure

of a memory, the name on the tip

of a tongue one can’t seem to form.

No matter how many letters I write

to my ten-year-old self she doesn’t

seem to trust she will ever be first in line

because she’s been taught, she’s

supposed to be last.

I am beginning to understand

why I’ve always been in love with dandelions.

They are petaled, defiant sunlight

thriving where nothing else can.

The Sound of Ink