Visiting My Mother at St. Leo’s Cemetery

We distinguish all

the milky seeds

of dandelions, afloat in

mid-June breeze,

and I tell you

as I boy I saw them

through my bedroom window,

wondering how it snowed

when it was sultry

beneath the sun.

It was only after that

when my mother

spoke of wishes,

I should run into the

yard and pluck a stem,

blow my breath in

yearning, seeing

what might come true.

I asked her if

this weed was King

of Flowers, if our cat

was a distant cousin,

if a wish was

better than a prayer

(the latter gone unanswered

in her days of sick & blood);

if it mattered

if my eyes were closed

or open;

and if I peeked, was it

critical if I witnessed

where they landed, like

bowing my head

at grace

while glancing at

the others, thanking

some fickle God

who’d take offense

if He ever caught me,

make me go to

bed without my dinner,

my litanies

unheeded as she passed,

drifting off my tongue,

useless as a cloud

that gives no rain when it is

begged, a winter-hearted

genie in the wind.

Andreas Gripp

June 7, 2025

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