They wondered why I was late.
I saw them silently ruminate
About the causes all thereof.
They never stop to think that love
Might be the reason,
A season of sex, maybe,
A flat tire, a blowout in my underwire bra.
Most people think the worst of me,
As people do,
But don't worry, they think the worst of you, too.

But I had only just heard
The gospel about dandelion fur,
And on my way, about halfway there,
I saw a field full of dandelion hair.
And what was I to do?
For now I knew the truth about the seeds,
And how, tho considered by so many now to be weeds,
When you pick the stems up and give the heads a blow,
Your wishes go out and forth,
And all of them come true.
And so I ask again, my friend,
What was I to do?

People don't like to go to a place called home.
They like to go where it feels like one.
Some seek bars and smoky places.
Some seek trouble or friendly faces.
Some seek dollar bills or diamond rings,
But I have found that I seek fields of bittergreens
Where bright-as-sunshine flowers turn
Magically into wishes I didn't know I had,
And I reap gracious fields I haven't sown,
And mercifully, I bloom in riches that
I haven't earned.

-jenn