Dandelion
May 17 2007


Even in a sparse dry spring
I am forced to contemplate weeds,
silky yellow blooms scattered like cheerful winks
over parched brown lawns.

The definition of a weed :
that which requires no tending or cultivation
and greedily colonizes every open space
— the vacuum abhorred by Nature.
But their hardiness demands respect
however grudging;
as if they could prosper on next-to-nothing,
just air and sun.

I gleefully decapitate each one
before they burst into seed,
showering the world with insidious progeny
— a Malthusian horror unleashed.
But dandelions grow tenacious and deep,
long juicy roots plunging far beneath the surface
plundering the soil.
So the lawn is a thin green pin-cushion
impaled by weeds,
their sweet yellow blossoms like camouflage
— the innocent tips
of long invisible daggers.