They come into the house in the careful fists of springtime children, plucked tame for giving from lawn-jungle prides, yellow fur soft as silk, heads nestled together, gently grouped; all but purring their response to be home in a brown shallow bowl. Their chins leave freckled dust where they lean out over the rim, common flowers with curly leonine heads, gold, truly gold, proved by the love of children and some adults (I would be one) blessed with the compassionate wisdom to see and know that dandelions possess a boundless grace shared by survivors everywhere, to grow and bloom wherever they happen to be; wherever they land, to thrive persistently. These common flowers (weeds?) on common earth. And yet direct descendants of the sun.