The mighty dandelion
Standing proud
All green and white and gold
Swaying in the breeze.

Then, the mighty weed whacker
In spinning glory
All shiny red paint
Mowing down everything
In its path.

A tense moment
Time in suspension
As the cords touch the stem,
And then bite into it with a whir.

And the dandelion falls
Its last gift to the world,
White puffs of seed flying
Into the air and
Dispersing.

And so it goes.

Dandelions
Falling
Before a weed whacker
Like wheat before a scythe

Or, perhaps,
Plucked up
Root and all
By a child wearing
Gloves
Three sizes too big.

And yet –

What did the dandelion ever do
For such a fate?

The only aims of a plant –
To live.
To grow.
To spread its seed.

And humans

We live, do we not?
We grow, yes?
We populate the earth
Almost to its capacity, correct?

And we pollute the land,
The sea, the sky
Outer space, even
With our refuse,
Our failed attempts
That we can't face ourselves
And so toss away from us
To avoid being reminded
That we
Are
Not
Perfect.

Are we so much better
Than the mighty dandelion,
After all?