Late summer had toasted the grass and weeds,
But in the field I found a dandelion ghost,
A perfectly spherical puffball of a hundred seeds.
I pinched it off and huffed and watched the seeds coast
On the random eddies, out, out from my breath
Over the exhausted field, like paratroops let from a plane
Descending on a placid country not expecting death
Or life to visit in such sudden, delicate rain.
And as I sent the sphere exploding to naught,
I realized my act had some supposed significance,
Something about love or wishes, but I’d forgot
What it was, and so it was nothing but a blind dance
On a dying field, which whether or not it needs
Them, will birth more flowers or pernicious weeds.
