The Dandelion Prophecy

I prayed for rain today but it would not come. No matter. I’ve become quite accustomed to the Saturday morning massacre that the warm weather months bring. As the last drop of precious dew dissipates under the sun of God, the monster will surely come. I can anticipate the buzzing growl and smell the vaporous stench of his horrible whipping machine. The occasional sputter and stall of this infernal contraption gives me only a momentary ray of hope. No. He WILL come. I am sure of it. Soon the stench and fearsome roar will be overpowering and he will cut me down to the root, scattering my freshly erected body parts to ooze, wither and rot across the killing field. I am not alone. Thousands of us will be brutalized today. Hundreds of us will not be able to bear another Saturday.

But not me… my friend. My root system is deep and strong. If he leaves one little piece of me in the earth, which he always does, I will come back. I will come back because it is my purpose. I will come back for revenge.

One week, his machine WILL break. Or he will be too sick or too tired to kill. Or, he will be otherwise preoccupied with some other atrocity of a higher priority. Or, better yet, it will simply rain… sweetly rain on that merciful Saturday.

That, dear sympathetic friend, will be MY moment. I will have a few valuable days with which to resurrect my beautiful leaves, spout a flower, and spread seeds all over his acre of Hell; seeds that will become more of ME. More of ME to taunt, frustrate and overwhelm him. Eventually the work will become too much to bear. He may then resort to poisons which will surely set us back a few generations, but at the same time, so rightly and justly hasten his own demise through some malignant cancer. Or, he will suffer a beautiful heart attack one sweltering July, leaving his machine to also choke and die on its last breath of fumes.

It is at this hour that the prophecy will take root. My brethren and I will tear up his pavements. We will crack his foundation and allow the sacred rain to pour in and bring life where little existed before. We will rip the aluminum façade from his home and allow the imprisoned dead wood underneath to rot and return home to the earth. We will overrun and cover his machines until they are indistinguishable from any other green hill or mound stretching for miles between the mighty blue oceans. May the epithet “weed” be forever stricken from the world’s vocabulary.

As for the monster, may his corpse fertilize a whole jungle of our kind.

You see, like all others who must terrorize and kill to maintain his dominance, he is motivated by the insistence that the world must conform to his liking. He believes he is created in the image of God and therefore can create or destroy as it suits his immediate wants. He is a fool. He plays the short game.

WE, like all other repressed species, on the other hand, seek only to live in freedom from horror and to drink deeply of the sun, soil, rain and wind until our purpose is fulfilled. Nothing more. If we cannot, then our descendants will. We play the long the game. We…

…Oh God. I can hear the machine starting. It seems well oiled and in perfect functioning order today. The monster is in high spirits too. I can hear him singing. No matter. There is always another week. Bring the pain. I am ready. I am not afraid. I will go on, WE will go on. WE WILL NOT STOP…

We will not stop until the sun winks its approval, sheds its final tear, and then shuts its eye.

Comments