Dandelion in February and Other Poems
by Elizabeth Houseman
DANDELION IN FEBRUARY
I am the Dandelion in February,
blooming and blossoming
exclusively when and where
I do not belong.
I flourish in sidewalk cracks
and find just the right ray of sunshine
by the stairs of your front porch.
(But you spray me with herbicide,
because even when I am in season,
I am not where I’m wanted.)
I lift my head at the first sign of sun
and unfurl as soon as the Earth warms,
glowing in my ever-brief time to shine.
(But you tut as you walk by,
because though I am lovely in that moment,
you fully expect me to fail.)
I find that few truly want me
and even more long for my leaving,
given that they only see an invasive weed.
(But you, you notice that I’m there,
because you keep your eye out for those passed by,
and you stop to inspect me with a smile.)
I am the Dandelion in February,
blooming and blossoming
in my own patch of Spring
for myself, and for those who tell me I belong.
THE WOMAN I AM
I have always thought
that if I hadn’t become sick—
if I hadn’t developed a colorful variety
of painful, uncomfortable, awkward disabilities—
that I would have been a doctor.
I had good grades
and a knack for caring for sick people.
(The paycheck didn’t sound bad either.)
This, a wealthy life of prestige,
is the one I’ve always mourned,
as I nurse aching joints
and take handfuls of pills
just to be upright.
But as I swing our ax,
the one with a broken handle
and a dull edge,
I wonder if that might not be true.
The head of the ax sinks into the top of the log
with a satisfying thud.
The air is cold
and refreshing
in my lungs and on the back of my throat.
When the ax digs in,
finally,
the sharp crack that echoes out
into the December air
brings such satisfaction into my chest
that I wonder, “Is this,
this right here,
what I was meant to be?”
A woodsman.
An outdoorsman.
A woman painted tan by sunshine
and speckled in summer-developed freckles,
smelling of the rich outside air.
Yes, I was smart with good grades
as a young girl.
But I also climbed trees,
and ran barefoot,
and saved every lost worm
writhing on the cement.
I laid in the sun
as my hair tinged blonde
and my skin turned dark.
The ax thuds again,
and I return to the present—
the future I’ll never have,
one I’d never considered,
stretches before me.
I could have been that woman;
I could have climbed Everest.
I bury the sense of sorrow
into the still not split log
and raise the ax again,
with aching shoulders and a whining spine.
There were many people that girl—
that young and healthy one—
could have been.
This is the one I am now.
I swing again,
and the log does not split.
I roll the pain in my joints,
settle my stance,
and swing again.
This is the woman I am.
ELIZABETH HOUSEMAN
Elizabeth Houseman is a reader, writer, Christian, and wife living in coldhearted Michigan. She has work featured in La Piccioletta Barca, Critical Read, The Way Back to Ourselves, & elsewhere. When she isn’t obsessively writing, she works as a freelance photographer. You can find her on Instagram and Threads at @bethyhouseman.