It’s almost dandelion season in at least some of the state. This week’s poem tells a simple story about a patch of wildflowers. It’s a story you might read humorously or ominously, metaphorically or literally. Perhaps it’s all of those things at once.

Maya Critchfield grew up in Southern Maine and graduated from College of the Atlantic in 2016 after studying fiber arts, creative writing and graphic design.


By Maya Critchfield

I sit on my porch:

The view is of dandelions

Springing up beside the returning comfrey

And horsetails, violets and self-heal.

What violence is that?

Whirring blades and motor oil seep into my senses.

Lawn primeval no longer:

This, the Landlord’s kingdom

And the landscaper’s sharp-toothed machine

Grazes the ground,

Beheading dandelions as it passes back and forth,

Sending their bright heads flying.

Gibson Fay-LeBlanc is Portland’s poet laureate. Deep Water: Maine Poems is produced in collaboration with the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance. Poem copyright © 2017 Maya Critchfield. It appears here by permission of the author. For an archive of all the poems that have appeared in this column, go to

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