The mother dandelion had long since died and time was turning her citrine petals to soft, white pods. Each individual pod was a son or daughter who, none ever having known their mother, took comfort and friendship in one another. Of these numerous pods, three in particular formed a strong bond of sisterhood, not knowing that it was their destiny to be separated on the whim of a schoolchild, who felt the folly to pluck the family of seed from the ground. With a mighty blow of breath, the plentiful siblings dispersed and rode the breezes. The three sister pods had a very lamentable draw, as one fell not far from their home, while the other two soared across the creek bed.

Two were destined to stay together, while one could only thirst to be with her sisters. But knowing that circumstances could be worse, the three sisters found solace in the fact that they could still communicate with one another. Nurtured by the soft rains and glowing, yellow sun, which reminded them of nothing short of their own mother, at least, what they dreamed her to be like, they grew. They grew to be sturdy, proud flowers who were tall enough to see each other from across the creek bed without straining their stems. They laughed and sang. Their shared their dreams. The Spring was warm and beautiful, and it was a wonderful life.

The side housing double the sisters was owned by a man who saw the sisters as weeds and, one day, doused them in herbicide. The lone dandelion sister could only watch as her sisters died. It happened slowly. They wilted only a little at first; their hands hung low with the sickness. Then their jocund, green leaves turned brown. At the end of the day, they lay against the grass. Then they were gone. The living sister across the creek bed , unable to uproot herself, could do nothing but spend that eternity watching her sisters rot and die. The rains then fell and the sister's roots absorbed Adam's ale against her will. The warm sun shown and she cursed it. The rich oxygen in the crisp air passed through her leaves and she could only wish for death as her environment kept her alive, unaware of her plight. Finally the groundskeeper answered her prayers with her own measure of defoliant after seeing how beautiful the sister free lawn across the creek bed looked.

The remaining sister started to die in the same way she had seen her sisters go. She wilted and browned and was thankful for the first time that her sisters were no more and thus unable to watch her suffer. She died. The only remaining yellow in the fields on either side of the creek bed were the daffodils that were always allowed to live and never separated.

When your hands can mimic birds,
you lose the need for sound.
A flight of words that bear no chirp
are none the less profound.

They don't perch on a pitch.
They don't possess the need .
They fly until you've seen their song,
then silently recede.

No one could find more freedom than
the freedom granted flight.
No one can see more beauty than in
words passed left to right.

You're not magic anymore.
I watched the coin you tired to banish; It never left your hand.
Now you look different than before.

You dumped the rabbit from your hat to the floor,
and you stood there, like your methology was so very grand.
You're not magic anymore.

Your spades I once shuffled; Your queens I adored.
But your hearts are all flat and your suits will disband.
Now you look different than before.

I broke it. Splintered it louder than anything I'd ever swore.
Your wand brought nothing to your stand.
You're not magic anymore.

Your incantations lack conviction, despite whatever glamour.
I see this comprehension slow that sleight of hand.
Now you look different than before.

Those cheers on false pretenses are no longer yours.
The footlights dim; The doves die and
you're not magic anymore.
Now you look different than before.