I question the flowers, and I question my heart. How can fields of dandelions go unnoticed and simply grow there, smiling always for their King without any tending and with no acclaim? How can they shed their yellow petals for seeds of fuzz, releasing all their dreams into the wind?
If I was a dandelion, could I praise my King despite the seemingly insignificant role my life played? Could I be brave enough to let children and pets, wind and rain blow my seeds hither and thither, never knowing whether or not another flower would spring forth from my efforts?