Peace of Simple Youth

A poem by Isabelle Sorrells

The innocent curiosity and absorption my little brother has

For such the simplest things

Astounds me.

He can be so preoccupied and entertained

By the little puff

Of a dandelion in its last stages of life.

He twirls it in his fingers,

Not a word to be said.

Laying in the grass,

Attention all focused on the ball of cloud in his hand,

Only wavering when he spots another along the way.

Almost as if he was holding the world in his fingers,

And nothing else mattered,

Not the things he had to do,

Or the places he needed to be.

Nothing but that little dandelion.

And when I ask him what he’s doing

He says

“What? I like them.”

Such a peaceful, simple thing.


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