We asked our neighbors if they’d like to walk with us to the museum of dandelions. Only forty miles, we said. Too close, they replied. For they prefer dandelions much farther off, gold medallions on hillsides in Moldova or Kyrgyzstan, safely beyond seed puff reach of their exquisite lawn. Which it truly is, that lawn, an emerald carpet silky shining as if handloomed by skilled artisans given work in a refugee camp. People on the march, castaways upon the sea, casualties of war, famine, and failed revolutions of hope. Hope that turns half brownish and shriveled and wet after a few glorious days. Easily brightness deceives; quickly it may close. Still, we decide, alone if we must, we will walk to the museum.
Richard Baldasty is a poet and collage artist who lives in Spokane in eastern Washington state. Recent work online may be accessed at Spelk and the Journal of Compressed Creative Arts. On Twitter @2kurtryder.