Each spring, food a daily struggle,
our mother snatched scads of dandelions,
shook off the dirt, cut away yellow
Rapunzel heads, washed the abundance,
cooked them down. Bacon on lucky days.
We ate whatever was put before us,
never turned up our dirty noses
at the stringy greens, often on our plates.
“They’re healthy,” she’d plead,
“good for you growing boys.”
Years later, she’d tell us
not to mention the greens,
embarrassed by our blessings.
I did anyway,
got an aghast rib poke,
a wry smile from her.
“Can’t eat them anymore,”
she’d retort: “Pesticides.”
Originally published in Silent Spark