I’m not a poet, but I play one on
TV this blog.
It’s Spring. I was looking out at my lawn. I was thinking. This is what happened.
Like a dandelion in the hand of a child,
So is sin in the hearts of men.
The child is at play, yet the plant is not.
A simple game, not learned or taught.
No careful, calloused hand to sow,
But a careless, carefree breath to grow.
It will fall through the wind and bloom where it lands,
A thousand fold from where it began.
It never grows, it only spreads;
In pastures, fields, or flowering beds.
No prejudice or motive more
Then to slowly take what it had not before.
It lives to choke and simply to take
What it cannot give and it could not make.
Yet a dandelion under the Heal of the Wise,
Is quickly killed and forever despised.