Hope is a dandelion flowering
unbidden in the garden of a King;
among all else that bends to the command
of iron hoe, sharp shovel, gentle hand
of slaves that plant and tend, uproot and till,
that weed alone dares smile against his will.
The ruler ventures out to fume and pace,
and notices the frilly yellow face;
and muttering about incompetence,
he lifts his staff and flicks toward the fence—
off with its head—but grinning, leering still,
the severed head retorts, “You cannot kill
the groping hidden deep life-giving roots,
yet if you do, a thousand parachutes
will waft new children here to mock your power—
command the world: you won’t subdue a flower.”