Seemingly cespitose,

At least before lip blows,

Sending seeds ascatter,

Via wind’s chit-chatter,

‘Fore alighting at spot,

Where skyward senseis ought

Consider how to raise

A dandelion’s days

Beyond that of a weed

To joy sun’s son does feed. ; )

That which had been precluding breath from frosting the air and, as well, sheltering lips from chapping cuts was, now, no longer purposed to protection, but, rather, being hailed a la proclamation as an orarium towards seekers along the snowy shore, who were likely hope’s last—if not only—chance at flagging, through world of white, a saviour rather than a surrender. ; )