Dandelions

A five-year-old ran before the mower
grasping at dandelions
before his father could cut them down.
He couldn’t save them all.

Those he did spare
were handfuls of sunshine
thrust into her arms,
the woman weeding her neglected garden.

The once teary eyed child smiled,
then dove inside mulch piled high,
green blended with yellow,
and hid from their sight.

Shhh. The mower missed one;
in the corner under the eave,
where the gutter carried rain
from the garage roof.

The child did not pick it --
let it grow but did not know
it would die like the old man
with all of its hair falling out.

Pollen and summer, gone forever.
The child wakes screaming,
‘Don’t cut the dandelions!’
grasping for his father’s waist.

It’s too late.
All our dandelions have gone.