Stomping on Dandelions

Cowboy poet Bobby Tex Frost, who prefers to be known as Slim, is the Cowboy Lariat of Periwinkle County. He posted a poem on the door of the Lutheran Church last night, in time for the meeting this morning of the RCMP, Rachel Carson Memorial Plantology Society.

I walked today in Smitty Park,
my usual intentionally erratic
zig-zag pattern, that lets me step
on any dandelion in sight.
The little yellow heads are sly
trying to make us think
that they are joyful mimics
of the sun that bids them forth
from out the ground, still shivering
under frost, when first they plotted
out their grand design.
Deer know better, though,
and rabbits, too, mostly.
Sometimes you see a rabbit munching
on a dandelion stem, too little,
too late, to do any good
after the bright yellow head
has turned to gray
so that the unsuspecting wind
can blow its sins
to kingdom gone.
That rabbit, drunk on dandelion wine,
is soon eaten by a fox.
I stomp on anything
that is arrogant enough
to think it knows
better than I do
how to fill up my life.

Slim sat all morning in the Ogden Nash booth at the Mills of the Gods Coffee House and Persimmon Pudding Parlor, thinking one of the ladies of The RCMP might come by. He hadn't signed his name to the poem, but he was sure they would recognize his font. No one came, though. He assmed they were out stomping on dandelions.