Today I was to write about anger. It was surprisingly difficult. I don't generally write as a direct reaction to a present emotion. It's more like acting. And I guess anger was a place I didn't want to go. I guess I'm not comfortable about it. I can be very angry, sometimes a little disproportionately so. And I find that I am not angry at times when maybe I should be. I have trouble understanding other people's anger.
They say anger and depression are the same thing, or sides of the same coin.
I wrote about dandelions. We got mowed on Thursday. I think it was today that I marveled at the pretty yellow discs on the lawn.
The Dandelion Mother
Every year when it gets just this warm
I raise my thousand fingers through the earth
and birth my golden flowers. I fill each green blanket
with them, just as my cousin fills his black skies
with silver stars. Well, he did his trick once. Me,
I have to repeat myself. Those stompers send
their wheeled bullies out to gobble what I give.
When I feel their teeth against the tips,
my hands curl into fists. I will give again
and again, but for now I crouch into myself,
wondering whom to hate, wondering
what is so wrong with tiny yellow suns
on green sky.