The Field

In the field
the dandelions twine their golden heads,

They are bright flames,
And burn out their lives.
And the soft air slips

Through the perfectly woven
sleeves of their petals,
to fall down the vale.

But I saw one to bend,
and grow up tall,
As if it had a heart

That wanted to hold things,
Between its stirring hands,
The laughter of sunlight

Steamed way up behind the mounds,
And tilled yet another bridge,
But became a light

Where dandelions played.

—Lola Ridge

• Lola Ridge