The 4th bouquet came from
the sticky hand of a red-headed boy
who plucked triumphant beamy dandelions
crushing their hollow stems in his fist while
explaining that he'd picked two yellow flowers for me
one with a long stem and one with a short stem!
but there were two of them!
and I should put them in water.
I beamed back and found the smallest vase.
These priceless blooms closed at sunset
and reopened at dawn for days
arriving and departing like him
until they shed their browning yellow tips
then opened one final time
with heads as white and brief as breath in winter.
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