where shadows whisper secrets
to the dewdrops on the grass,
there stands a dandelion,
unassuming, golden-bright,
being only what God meant it to be.

not the noble rose,
nor the stately oak,
but a humble sunburst,
not cultivated but scattered by the breeze.
a million seeds of possibility,
being only what God meant it to be.

children’s wishes and wild imaginings,
held in its frail, white puff.
it bends but does not break,
rooted deep in the earth,
resilient, persistent,
always returning,
never yielding to disdain,
being only what God meant it to be.

though others may call it a weed,
a pest to be uprooted
it blooms with quiet grace,
offering nectar to the bees,
hope to the hopeful,
beauty in its simplicity,
being only what God meant it to be.

the dandelion knows no shame,
standing tall amidst the clover,
an emblem of survival,
a testament to the small,
the overlooked, the dismissed,
being only what God meant it to be.

there’s dignity in its defiance,
courage in its commonness.
in its yellow face,
I see the sun,
in its tenacity,
the promise of new beginnings,
in its unnoticed splendor,
the inherent worth of the unremarkable,
being only what God meant it to be.

and as the day grows long,
the dandelion stands steadfast,
a silent, glowing affirmation,
that dignity is not bestowed
by grandeur or acclaim,
but by the simple act of being,
true to oneself,
in every field,
under every sky,
being only what God meant it to be.