In every shadow,

Of the moon’s soft gaze,

In dimly lit alleys,

There is still light.

And from centuries past—

Stories and legend,

A wolf’s lonely howl,

There are many others.

But moss grows at a slow pace.

Dandelions of spring not yet bloomed,

And those that grow:

The wind scatters wishes

That are ready to grow again.

Yet some are never seen,

And they arise in waiting

For that one breath

that will make them fly,

That will plant their seeds of hope.

And no one comes.

No wish is saved.

And the lowly dandelion withers,

Fades.

Now quite unknown,

The weed disappears.

Returning to the ground…

And forgotten

As life moves forward.