Each year it takes longer to be sure
that the mane of this flower-weed is carried
upward
on the wind’s current toward the place
where wishes may be granted.

A child, age two, is not quite sure
what to make of this strange ritual
that interrupts our walk. He takes the bare
stalk
in his small hand and asks for another

on which to blow, as I have done,
the crown of this thistle dissolved by my wish
which was more for him—not so much my own—
that he may stand on this earth, full-grown,

and remember how the sun made his shadow lengthen
into manhood—a time in which he, too, shall
resurrect
odd customs with his own spirit’s breath
among wildflowers that separate the stones.

Maxine Cassin
from her book The Other Side of Sleep
Portals Press, 1995

Used with permission of the poet’s estate.