i gladly pluck every 

dandelion threatening to 

choke out the front yard lilac,

deep down to their bumpy, gingerish 

roots that snap with the plunge 

of a shovel.

no life is to be sucked from 

the purple buds ever more deserving

when my dad is bent over

searching himself,

i can hear his shrill whistle 

through the bay windows.

the bliss must be genetic 

because soreness aside,

it carries us to sundown

the jade wind chime 

bellows in the breeze, 

heavy enough to slightly curve

it’s branch.

As & Es echo in my skin

& bones 

& I can’t get enough 

(5/17/25)