Myth of the Dandelions

I wonder where 
dandelions rest;
if they are floating myths
that perch and whisper
in the breath
that blew them.

If they fall
when winds dribble
to a slow...
get dusted with
our broken
worries
and sink silt
deep.

If they feel
anxious
at the whim of
their path
or accept
lover's tugs
as true direction.

If arriving isn't 
once.
Each ray of
ghost silk
tickling
infinitely 
into home.