who is this architect of our heart
who draws arrows and crosses lines?
were his plans at work in a little boy
who innocently blew dandelion parachutes
into the neighbor’s yard,
unaware of the consequences;
only aware of the beauty of something
so fragile
being carried by the wind?
who is this architect of our heart
who connects and disconnects the
strings and wires
that hold us together?
are the plans so intricately drawn
that the pieces fit precisely or not at all?
For three days I have patiently weeded
the dandelions from my yard.
And at the end of each weeding
I have stood and admired my work.
Dandelion holocaust complete.
Only to find that the next morning sun
has resurrected their brothers and sisters
to yellow glory.
I cease my weeding and allow some to grow old,
old enough to pluck and hold aloft
and blow dandelion parachutes
into the neighbor’s yard.
Only this time I am aware of the consequences.