In the cracks of the bricks By the house in the sticks, Grows a stem and bulb, lone— And one wish that it holds. With a hope to be picked, It stands tall and affixed. Soon, along comes a soul, During a midnight stroll. Down sits they on the rocks, With no shoes, and no socks. In the damp summer cold, A dandelion is pulled. Their lips purse, gaze locked. Hesitation—they stop. Was it their wish to blow? Or someone else’s? Stolen?