Sonnet seem to be my default form. Today's first draft.
If I had sage enough and thyme
the dandelion would be no crime.
If I scoured the sky, laid waste to meat
a red kite with silent curving wings displayed,
who lorded over a broad estate
then foxglove, bittercress, wild saxifrage
would root and tumble, privileged.
If I could only let the onions grow
and not be always wielding hoe
or spine-deriding, bending low.
There’s memories going back in time
of blowing clocks, of daisy chains
and mum with fork in summertime
rooting out those lawless dandelions.