The cloth on her skirt
rips in jagged edges.
She's never really known
how to sew, how to patch,
how to be the perfect woman
like they taught her in Home Ec.
When something rips,
you throw it away, right?
Nobody wears torn clothing,
pretends to like burnt casseroles.
Nobody waters dandelions,
but the sun loves them
indiscriminately.
Martha Stewart frowns upon
indecision, but who is she
but one more person
polishing brass on
the Titanic? Even she
couldn't market being
a Stepford Wife and
turn a profit.
But maybe less than perfect
is okay if it makes you laugh,
if the food fills your belly
and the skirt keeps you warm
and you can make it through
just one more day by
glimpsing the inside
of my patched heart...
then we should continue
our childlike efforts at
hand-sewing, one stitch
at a time and make a few
mistakes along the way.
I never promised you a
rose garden either...
but I'll be glad to be
your dandelion girl.
Just don't blow too hard
or I'll scatter, because
even dandelions need
shelter from the storm.
Remember that I too
am fragile, like a
whisper in the night
over a long-distance
telephone, afraid--