reach their roots deep into the earth,
like the oak tree, tall; her shade covers
the yellow dandelions randomly growing in the green grass.
I am the dandelion, blown about and random,
covered by the mottled darkness, protection from the noonday sun,
the only sky I know.
I wait for the next gust of wind
with my hands clenched, eyes shut,
but face turned toward the sun.
Bravery close up.
In the winter of life,
all we have left is our self-respect.
It is enough.
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2020