once, a dandelion seed flew into my hair - the little pit suspended by parachute leaves - i grabbed the head of the flower and pinched it between my thumbs, pollen staining, leaving golden specks crushed beneath my fingers and wondered how something so small could float through the sky, wondered how something so small could fly past tall barren trees and gangling buckwheats to dig its way through the nest of my head and i wondered if i am the same to you:
me, little dandelion seed scattered through dust and wind - i forage through lanky weeds and towering stems, fighting gravity with my small feathered wings until i land on your roadmap body or tuck behind the pockets of your felted jeans - i will cling onto you as hard as possible, the whole weight of me light against your papered skin so when you finally find me hidden between your strands of hair - you will pluck me out and crush me beneath your fingers wondering
how something so small could have ever reached you.
Eva Chen is a junior from Burlingame, CA. She has been recognized by the Scholastic Arts and Writing Awards, Kalopsia Literary Magazine, The Loud Journal, and WeWriteHere. In her free time, she enjoys playing kalimba and playing tug-of-war with her dog.
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