The Stinking Hawksbeard by Hilary Wilce

Is there anyone in the world

who hasn’t felt,

at one time or another,

unseen?

Who hasn’t thought

their inner beauty

ill-served by a humble

appearance?

Or known that their

whole bright being is

more than a careless label

someone has stuck on them?

So step closer.

Take time to look,

really look,

at me.

The Stinking Hawksbeard.

You think I’m a small dandelion.

Nothing more.

But maybe crouch down,

closer to me,

and stay still for a time.

And then,

when your eyes have settled,

extend one slow finger

to brush back

my yellow petals.

And discover with delight

my beautiful,

hidden,

tawny-red streaks

beneath.