Dandelions

[Trigger Warning]

This poem contains metaphoric descriptions of sexual violence and may be distressing for some individuals.

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To be a dandelion, bright in the sun,

a yellow bloom where bees arrive, one by one.

Petals sway and hum with the breeze,

tiny wings, gold-dusted from the trees.

Roots firm in earth, yet reaching for the sky,

a fleeting gold that catches every eye.

The field hums softly, alive—a gentle tide;

each blossom bright, yet fragile at its side.

I watch my peers as some are plucked,

their golden crowns in eager palms are tucked,

flowers lifted in seeking hands, their beauty claimed,

uprooted from their fertile lands, defamed

We too were grazed by careless touch,

our silence—

sold

— for nothing much.

We few remain, silver-haired and strong,

to stand against the wind where we belong,

to defy the weight of all that tries to break;

trampled, ignored, yet still our crowns we take.

Though bent, we keep our beauty, wishes high,

that drift beyond ourselves into the sky.

We loose our power only when we choose,

among our dreams, our seeds the earth will use,

They find their soil, they bloom afar—

in worlds unknown, they shine like stars.

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This poem follows the life of a dandelion—from its golden bloom to its silver crown of seeds. Beneath that gentle image lies a story of endurance. It speaks to how women across the world are mistreated by men and silenced in one way or another.

The field is every street, home, classroom, and office where a woman’s body is treated as public ground.

The plucking is both the moment her choice is taken and the silencing that follows, when countless voices are stolen before they can speak. It falls to those of us who remain to speak for them, and for ourselves.

The silver heads are the survivors: weathered, ignored, but unbroken. And when they release their seeds—their dreams—they do so on their own terms: when, where, and how they choose.

I wrote this poem because I was once the yellow dandelion someone decided to pick. I learned early that silence could be traded for safety—then sold back to me as “nothing much.” Erasing myself and staying small felt easier than explaining why I flinched at ordinary kindness. Survival, for me—at that time—looked like pretending nothing had happened, until I was in a space safe enough to finally speak up.

I wrote this poem because I am not the only one.