How many seeds have died under your feet
to sprout a full yellow dandelion?

How many messages have melted in the fire
to grow wings on yellow paper?

How many times has wind snuffed out a wick
to notice the yellow moths dancing in the dark?

If I were you, I wouldn’t be afraid of the storm
that carries the yellow seeds into the palms

of strangers, who will then lift their eyelids
and watch the yellow seeds flying

across a new galaxy spinning under our shoulders
where our eyes meet for the first time.