A poem about dandelions. Less generic than it sounds, I promise.
Amidst a desert garden of dead and dying
an oasis of green sprouting
proud and yellowed hands.
With palms open to the sky,
they catch the sun
to steal its color and keep it as their own.
Insects, loyal friends, are drawn to the light
of these mini-suns,
visit with purpose, to be sustained by the golden residue
vomited on occasion when
these faithful flowers
to their God.