A Dandelion’s Last Stand
It was crisp, cool, New England autumn day. Several nights placed a blanket of frost upon my sleeping lawn. Yet there it stood, its stem straight as an arrow. Its head clad in a white Ushanka. The leaves were green and jagged appeared to be arms reaching out as if to say here I am. A sentinel representing the last remnant of the past summer. That was until I heard the screech of my daughter. Look daddy! She slays the dandelion with her grasp and blew. The seeds like paratroopers floated over the lawn. And I watched as they settled in for the new spring invasion.