I know a flower,
a fluffy dandelion-headed girl,
who wears a yellow hat and a ragged green dress,
who thinks that her blooming every year
is what moves the world.

Spring follows winter,
hours run after days,
stars wheel in their courses,
and she thinks it is all because of her.

What pride! What hubris! What temptation!

I visit this girl every year.
The grass trembles at my touch.
I am the small death.
"You look tasty," I tell her.

"I am a goddess," she says.
"My roots are the center of the earth,
my blood is the milk of heaven,
my scent is the breath of the spirit.
You're too late. You missed it. I already moved the world.
I love you and though you cut me down,
you will never, ever, ever-"

I deal with this the only way I know how,
but I've not yet proved her wrong.
The bitch is perennial.