I push two downy dandelions
between your fingers.

The inner side of your palm
is lacy and calm.

But here, on the outside,
green stems jut out
rimmed with white blood:

as if walled soldiers slide
spears through pink embrasures,
aiming at my eyes.

With gentle boldness
I turn your palm around
and point the spears
away, at the prancing cloud,

and my eyelashes,
as I lean yet nearer,
ruffle both helmets
into erratic silver.