A Moment In The Mind Of A Poet

And it seems at times that I grab at

Myself like a speeding hand

Protruding through the window

Of an old sedan,

With no delusion of ever actually

Catching hold of those floating

Dandelion Seeds,

That until me,

Were aimlessly falling in no hurry

Across the breeze,

Legions strewn alongside fence lines—

Yet, not a single one settling

In my hand.