He spins a little flower by its stem
between his fingers, staring at the ground
obliquely at the place from where he plucked
its life. A dozen others lie around.
Each broken stem his nervous fingers tore
with thoughtlessness he never will surpass
then spun it once or twice before he dropped
its dead potential on the verdant grass
In time the stems and flowers will decay
and fertilize the lawn, both blade and weed
will benefit from his uncaring gift
and equally uncaring they will feed
to grow, to be a place both soft and strong,
a field to be mowed down and walked upon.