A poem by Isabelle Sorrells
The innocent curiosity and absorption my little brother has
For such the simplest things
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
“What? I like them.”
Such a peaceful, simple thing.