Dandelion, you are the slut

of flowers. Spread your seed

like a wanton, impregnate soles,

ride coat hems on gusts of wind.

You give up everything to

a child’s leather shoe,

a squirrel’s tail, anything

that gives you attention.

Lilac,

You are the old

woman of trees.

Perfume like aged cheddar, you are

an acquired taste. A full bust

and trunk eighty-three rings wide,

your bones delicate, skin as creamy

as the first bloom.

You shake gaunt fingers at dandelion,

show her there’s lust in keeping your leaves.

Clover,

You are candy of the plants.

Sweet bursts of white, red on the tongues

of cows, a child’s leather shoe.

The honeybee is your butter knife,

spreads your nectar like raspberry jam

on bread warm from the oven.

You envy the dandelion, swarm its legs

when the gardener picks dandelion

greens for dinner, she’ll think of you.