Poetry
1 min
Dandelion Clocks
Grace Guo
There is this saying,
There's no place like home.
Which made it wonder —
what is home, exactly?
Is it the field you first knew?
The soil that cradled you longest?
Or the place where the sun feels most like belonging?
But, I was only a seed,
carried by spring winds,
tossed from garden to garden,
but never rooted long enough
to call any patch of earth my own.
New streets,
New yards,
New skies overhead,
New hands that tried to plant me —
I didn't have roots deep enough to ache for,
Nor petals heavy enough to be able to stay.
Just breeze,
and the memory of everywhere I've flown.
Yet, maybe,
home isn't a single garden.
Maybe it's the hands that tend you,
the laughter that waters you,
the light that coaxes you taller.
Maybe home
is the drifting itself —
the reaching,
the trust that somewhere,
and somehow,
spring will find you again.
There's no place like home, they say —
and maybe,
there's no home like the beginning of spring,
when dandelion clocks bloom,
no matter where they land.
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