You are nearly gone now.
Only secretly lingering
In the northern sides of my heart,
Like April’s final snow.
It’s the damaged ones that cause
All the damage.
Some sort of entitlement;
Some sort of mad desire for consideration.
You are merely
Dandelion wishes
Floating on some awful wind
That messes my hair.

I am the chaff left
From life’s winnowing.
The piece that drifts,
You are constantly ruining.

Would you prefer me in a gingham dress?
Would you prefer me with scrapes on my knees?
Sneezing, with a hammock
Between two tress?
Feet tied in fishing line, with tad poles in buckets;
And one giant redwood floating in seas?