Over-Ambitious Phallic Metaphor

While this dandelion presses upward
to proclaim a rapturous leonine pose
I would like to believe that like the dandelion,
my shoulders thrust to the Sun
and my shadow drives back competitors,

that like the dandelion, even if
a violent death scythes my deepest arteries
and I am mown by fate into pieces of wilting debris

I will have gulped enough of the milk of life,
so much like the dandelion’s sap that inches up its cut stem
even as rot creeps up from its bottom;
so that bodiless, withered, even still

the roaring yellow turns to hopeful white
and startles the gardens with
life’s defiant power.