The Mistake

The mistake was light and easy in my hand,

A seed meant to be borne upon the wind.

I did not have to bury it or throw,

Just open up my hand and let it go.

The mistake was dry and small and without weight,

A breeze quickly snatched it from my sight,

And even had I wanted to prevent,

Nobody could tell me where it went.

I did not think on the mistake again,

Until the spring came, soft, and full of rain,

And in the yard such dandelions grew

That bloomed and closed, and opened up, and blew.