She insists I call her dandelion
when I see her as my little daffodil,
both yellow,
she’s my sun, after all
warm and precious
wild and pure

Dandelions or daffodils,
has the name ever mattered?

she’s my yellow
my joy, my hope
all my wishes
come true to life.

she’s my color of autumn,
I fall for her yellow, red, orange, dark;
fall to become the broken cage
for the canary she is,
cute, tiny, yellow.

They say when live gives you lemons,
make lemonade –
but life gave me her
difficult, she’s a stubborn heart
the universe indeed loves a stubborn heart
and so do I, loving the chase,
the mystic challenge she is.

because I feel like running
my expected life – unleashing me
liberating me
I also feel like standing in an artsy
lush mustard field,
sweet to look at, fairly bitter to taste
I call her my flower
all sides of life in her.

Dandelions or daffodils,
the name doesn’t matter,
her own name is that of a leaf,
spinach – healthy, essential for me,
equally soft and lively – rejuvenating

she’s as much the sun
that’s mighty and bright
as the moon,
that’s now half up on the sky.

//because there’s a half moon on the sky. Like you, showing half of your sweet side while the wild is ready to pounce.
//I realized she’s one of my muses and I absolutely dote on her, when we sat in front of India Gate, (leaving classes because fuck it… that semester wasn’t good at all anyway and I, tbh, survived due to her), she is my eggs going sunny side up, my face turning puffy smilie face. Thank you, my little yellow dot.

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