The mistake was light and easy in my hand,
A seed meant to be borne upon the wind.
I didn't have to bury it or throw,
Just open up my hand and let it go.
The mistake was dry and small and without weight,
A breeze quickly snatched it from my sight,
And even had I wanted to prevent,
Nobody could tell me where it went.
I didn't think on the mistake again,
Until the spring came, soft and full of rain,
And in the yard such dandelions grew
That bloomed and closed, and opened up, and blew.
