I have compassion for the dandelion.
I, like it, was vibrant in my youth. I had passion. I was vivid. I was proliferate.
But now my vivacity has faded to grey. I have ideas, I have plans. But they have dried up.
One blow and they fly away, possibly to grow elsewhere. But I won’t know. I won’t see what happens.
I’m not long for this world; I’ll soon be deep inside another green lawn.
There is no epoxy strong enough to hold me here much longer.

I fly, I fly. I float away.

And though I will be destroyed,

I will be fulfilling

somebody’s dreams.