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If my Mom were brown, she’d be
a tree standing so tall.
If my Mom were blue, she’d be
the sky without a cloud in her.
If my Mom were green, she’d be
a sagebrush standing so small.
If my Mom were white, she’d be
an Aspen tree standing over me.
If my Mom were black, she’d be
a big lava rock ready to explode.
Submitted by S.B. Johnson
If Mom were blue, she’d be
a wavy ocean.
If Mom were red, she’d be
bright blood.
If Mom were brown, she’d be
hot sand.
If Mom were black, she’d be a
humpback whale.
If Mom were pink, she’d be a
colorful marker.
Submitted by S.B. Johnson
Of all the infinite variety of flora on the face of the earth, few get more universal attention than the ubiquitous dandelion. The hallmark of a successful suburbanite is a lawn with every blade of grass a uniform shade of deep green, each blade cut to exactly the same height. And then one day in the midst of that sea of green, a bright yellow spot appears – vivid and unmistakable amongst the carpet of green – and with a cry of anguish, the formerly contented home owner rushes to the spot by way of the garage shelf and rids his environs of the hated blotch of yellow, administering a lethal dose of weedkiller or severing its deep tap root with a long sharp instrument and relegating the intrusive herb to the trash can en route to its final resting place in the city dump.