We Minions

Watching dandelion puffs burst into flying tufts
under the spitting, huffing breaths of small children,
she wonders what the dandelion puffs must think
of those who dare to submit to their silent commands:
spread our seeds, they say, with tuft-temptation;
and small grasping hands obey with the reluctance
of a cat gobbling a scrap of begged-for chicken.

Silken sun nudges its way through the leaves and
warms her hand, highlighting a small brown spot
that never existed there before--ow! She squishes the
no-see-'um bug, but its secret feast has made a red spot,
and the man-made bench crawls with pesky 'friends'
who admire her more than she admires them; how
considerate they must think humans are; to make them
a table sat with such ever-changing variety of flavors.

Walking the shady path she scents honeysuckle,
newborn to the season, vines winding along fences
whose so-convenient checkerboard wires are the ideal
handholds for fast-climbing green things, and happily
placed right where the wandering hands of walkers
can pluck a flower and slurp its nectar from a bloom
turning gold with age and sweetness. She tosses the
emptied vessel into other flowers, in thanks for a treat.