Thistles

Stately they stand high in the lawn,
Waiting the moment to be airborne,
A brisk wind and away they go,
Highlighted by sun in its afterglow.
Millions of seeds there in the sky,
Many will live while others may die,
Miles and miles spectacular to see,
Lie on the grass watch them flying free.
Oh how easy for them to propagate,
Once their released it's hard to equate,
Where and when each will alight,
These little parachutes hover just right.
Pick a stalk blow on the stem,
Select another and do it again,
Observe the manner in which they float,
Visible on land or from a motor boat.
Nature has ways in which to survive,
Like this thistle and how it'll thrive,
Unaided by man the seed is sown,
Simply by wind and where it's blown.