by Kevin T McEneaney
Dead-heading dandelions on the lawn,
squeezing the yellow juice of the flower,
will do nothing at all for the landscape—
for the dandelion exceeds our thought
and even place on this dizzy planet.
Why can’t we make a truce with our planet
which we abuse with chemicals and war?
Why prefer the process of destruction
to the newness of loving creation?
Is it that we resent our mortality
in the ragged teeth of the dandelion
upon which we trod for millions of years?
We are both more and less than we conceive.
What trumpet sounds for the fate of our earth?
