Will you love me even as I scatter?
For the moment you blow, your wish will come true…
And I will disappear.
Gassanee Thaisonthi is an author from Thailand
Hailing from Thailand, Gassanee is an author, translator, and columnist with a global soul. Having published over ten books including fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and anthologies. Her extensive travels serve as the impetus for her writing, while tiramisu remains her most irresistible sin.
Will You Love Me If I Am Not a Beautiful Lotus?
I know you envision me as a fragile, pink bloom,
petals unfurling soft under the sun.
You see me floating in a state of grace,
dancing upon the river, admired by people from many places.
You believe my beauty is a tranquil dream,
a mirror of serenity, never broken by the storm.
You place me in the stillness of manicured gardens,
where whispers of poetry carry a curated charm.
You imagine my scent is a sweet, enchanting breath,
a fleeting fragrance that captures hearts in bloom.
You seek the answers in my effortless elegance,
a silent vision anchored to a captivating corner.
But I cannot promise the silence of gentle waters,
for my roots are tangled deep in the gritty earth.
Though you think I should thrive amidst the lilies,
my journey stretches far beyond that.
I cannot grow in the water at all;
I am of a different species …a wildflower at heart.
Will you love me when I am tangled and unruly?
When my spirit is fierce and I live my life apart?
For I am just a simple dandelion, silver and wild,
holding ten thousand stories in one fragile breath.
Hold me close, whisper your deepest, darkest hope,
then let the wind carry me to the ragged edge of the world.
Will you love me even as I scatter?
For the moment you blow, your wish will come true…
And I will disappear.
***
My First Uzbekistan Biscuit
In a mythic land where the mountains stand guard,
and the sun paints the winding road in gold,
the bus hums along with a rhythmic, steady beat.
From his seat, he reaches out with a simple square
“This is an Uzbekistan biscuit,” he says with a smile,
offering a pack of biscuit.
his kindness spilling over even as his own stash runs low.
He offers a choice… smooth cream or rich chocolate,
chocolate for me, crisp soul of the grain.
A simple, flat square, brittle, and light,
it becomes a crunchy bridge for the whole group,
as we harvest the miles together
and the green landscape rolls into the past.
Steered by the wind toward the jagged peaks.
For the true taste of friendship is never found in the sugar,
nor in the gilded swirls of a baker’s art;
it lives in the “here, have one” of an open palm,
a crumbly communion that turns strangers into a team.
If you ask me now,
“Do you remember the flavor of that treat?”
I might forget the taste
The brand or the weight of the crunch,
I can no longer recall the recipe,
but I remember the friend who gave.
The sugar has long since faded,
but the taste of friendship remains, long after the feast.
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