When we were young
We’d call them “wishes,”
Gathering thistle seeds
Blowing skyward
“If it hits the ground, your wish won’t come true!”
And we’d run away as fast as we could
So as not to see our wishes fall back down to earth
Hoping they’d ascend all the way to the clouds
It never occurred to us
That coming back down like deflating balloons
Is what they were designed to do
That taking firm root in some unexpected place
Stubbornly growing strong and thorned from wispy fluff
To be favored by bumblebees in August
And wishful children in September
Was better than reaching heaven.
Margaret King lives in Wisconsin, and loves coffee, tai chi, and writing. She is the author of the poetry collection Isthmus. @Indreni