Dandelions

The field is a sea of dandelions.

Bobbing to and fro,

lost in their own huddle of hubub.

Together they seem inseparable,

these fledgling little dandelion seeds,

as only all together, do they make a flower.

The wind becomes their cruel instructor,

casting their huddle apart

and they are flung

It's odd, the silence that descends

deafening, smothering in its all encompassing embrace

Unfamiliar.

Dawn breaks.

Brings with, the first of new chatter.

The shield of silence is chipped away at,

new flower by new flower.

Till a semblance of familiarity,

makes its way back

into a huddle of hubub.

A poem about change.

Prashamsa