dandelion [ MF, alter. Of dent de lion, lit., tooth of (a) lion,
... in allusion to the toothed leaves ]
The Lions' Teeth that I was pulling
from my yard this morning spread their scalloped
arms in welcome - or maybe they were hiding from me in the grass.
Their tenacious roots resisted, clung to their ground as if defying what
compelled me to assault them. Surely we could share this little
space. Finding weeds and flowers interchangeable, I proclaimed
that since the yard was mine, it was to me which was a flower,
which a weed. Other yards and other flowers crept into my
mind - ages of Arabia and Asia . . . centuries of Europe,
Africa, America - Crusades and Inquisitions,
Holocausts and revolutions - Vietnam and
Serbia, and Birmingham. I turned
and neatly pruned and purged
my yard and made it
beautiful
come. Before the pruners, the flowers thrive
in harmony. They flourish, free, play their colors
in community of stone and bush and animal and tree.
So, some quiet Summer afternoon listen, hear the prism
sunlight sing on velvet petals. Watch the blooms perform
their dance, their celebration of the season at the end
of every stalk, these ageless slender bodies,
weaving supple tales such as we
who know so much can
never even
dream.Normally it is sufficient to simply cut them
back and burn or bury them, or even leave them
trampled where they fall, forgetting grace bestowed
by frail beauty not so long ago in bloom, that proper
buds may prosper on new branches reaching out
from rubble left behind. Too often, though,
the pruner finds that simply cutting back
is not enough, and he must tear out
every root, suppress the very
memory of yesterday, when
pruner's boots had not
yet trampled down
the vestiges of
flower days.
with wild abandon slashing, ripping down the spent
utility of that which could have blessed their daily struggle,
playing with the latest instruments of harvesting. They
sing the richness of their seed so ripe with promise
for the coming season. Hear hot breezes stroke
gray husks. Look upon these scattered stems,
dry residue of nascent slaughter. The song
is still; the dance is done, the stubble
a reminder of the frenzied rooting
up and tearing down. Grieve not
for rubbish, rather build the new
upon these wasted ruins.
This sacrifice assures
the fruition of our
aspirations for
tomorrow.
once again until one day the pruner does not come;
the devastation ends; and, undisturbed, the weary flowers
sing and dance and celebrate and dominate once more
victorious,
f r e e .