In the springtime dandelions
shout the arrival of warm winds
and the resumption of fertility.
Like painted Gauls they dance, march, play
resisting "civilization" through the metal blade
then return to fill the eyes of their attackers.
Yards are set ablaze with yellow
where no one has lent their green thumb
and they adorn without prejudice.
Colour more brilliant than tulips or daffodils
is granted almost overnight with no motive
but to simply live and breathe under the sun.
As their time draws short, each transforms
into a wizard's wand and imparts unto
tiny hands the magic to bring snow in May.
Yet men have become rich
by offering to kill for a fee
the beauty that has been so freely given.
A death sentence is pronounced
for the unthinkable crime of failing
to convey an ability to control.
If you've any comments on this poem, Steven
McKennon would be pleased to hear