Dandelion Memory

The old woman
held a gnarled hand over her eyes,
and squinted into the brilliant sun.
Yesterday the sky was dark
with roiling clouds and rumbling thunder,
the kind her mother always said
was the angels bowling.
Today, dandelions sprouted everywhere,
bringing another memory of her mother,
a mostly forgotten song,
some gibberish about a dandelion clock.
Such a silly thing.

She thought about her mother,
how she could be serious and strict,
but mischievous and loving too.
A little like the dichotomy of 
the dandelion puff and its flower.
Her mother would give her a stern look,
telling her if she picked the yellow flowers
she would wet the bed,
but she loved the delicate gray puffs.
She said each one held good luck wishes.

The old woman had a flash of memory:
She was a child watching
her mother blow the hoary seed head,
sending hundreds of fairy wishes out on the breeze,
transcendent joy illuminating her face.
The bubble of memory popped.
Her mother was gone,
and she was no longer a child
who believed in fairy wishes.
She was just an old woman
alone with her memories.
And yet, for some reason
she couldn't put a finger on,
she plucked the biggest dandelion 
she could find,
and blew her hopes into the wind.

Author’s note: For today’s poetry prompt, we were supposed to use at least three of the following six words in a poem. I used all six. It was fun trying to make them come together to tell a story without sounding forced. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.

• Bubble
• Dandelion
• Gibberish
• Gnarled
• Roiling
• Squint

~Elise Skidmore ©2025