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by Maralee Gerke
Around the field, in ever tightening circles,
I mow the heads of a thousand dying dandelions.
Their drying stems slip beneath my blade.
Downy globes shatter, revealing the
exquisite lightness of death.
Circles of pristine grass emerge behind me,
the path that we all must crawl, walk, or dance along.
Reaching the thinly drawn line between life and death,
I wonder, is it better to know what waits and when
or to be surprised, as the dandelions are when
they meet the whirring blade?