the secret language of broken weeds

I was walking along today and passed this dandelion head lying in the grass with a few seeds left in it. I walked on, and the image of it nagged at me. I stopped: nah, I walked on. Then I stopped again and turned back to have another look.
People passing me were trying to get a look at what was so interesting in the grass that I'd gone back to look at. Was it someone's ear? (I think they were still puzzling away once they'd walked on, I mean, He couldny just be lookin at that deid peethebed could he?)
Well, my friends: yes I was. It was some abstract feeling that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Something to do with how it looked against the line and texture of the wet grass. The wee globes of water. The cosmic geometry of the flowerhead and seeds set against this. The fact that there were only a few seeds left, their spiky down unlikely to catch the wind and fly, their purpose frustrated. Something muted, yet elegantly sorrowful.
It spoke to me in a language I didn't understand, but felt and responded to. That's enough of a reason, I guess. And on I went.