Death of Hydrangea

There rose a simple clumping

In the center of a field

That was destined for a mowing

For hay that it would yield

The flower bloomed in August

Inviting bird and bee

To drink its sweetest nectar

And sing a melody

The saintly meek hydrangea

Hoped it would be spared

But Kenny and his tractor

They neither knew nor cared

All left of sweet hydrangea

Was nothing but a plot

But deep within Ken’s hay bales

Flower seeds were caught