I took this picture with my cellphone about a week ago beside the driveway. It was the first week of October and this stubborn little dandelion wasn’t being shy at all about crashing fall. Not a bit. And I’ve been wracking my brain to find this poem about dandelions standing around on street corners like rebellious kids and I can’t find it on the internet. On my shelf. In my brain.

I found that Ray Bradbury sold newspapers on streetcorners and Yeats has a line in a play about a fool blowing a dandelion to tell time. Roughly a gazillion people liken writing ideas to behave like dandelion seeds (note to self, never use THAT metaphor).

So, I asked Salinger passing down the hall — trying to find this poem, I tell him. Do you know it? “No,” he says. “Give me a minute and I’ll write one for you.” Sure he could. So could I. But I’m sure the one I’m remembering is better. It is sterling. It captures the rebelliousness of the dandelion perfectly. Vachal Lindsey was into dandelions before he got into drinking Lysol and May Swenson had me noticing their little lion heads, but lost me at calling them sweet. I have now spent 2 hours looking for this perfect dandelion poem.

The dream of perfection pushing me beyond logic — kinda like a dandelion blooming in October.

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