A clock that isn't a clock

It's delicate structure easily damaged by the breeze, fragile, lacey beauty
Wispy bits of cotton clinging on for dear life remaining in place is it's duty
Children excited by the sight of new toys find novelty in it's destruction
Blowing the cobwebs into the air aiding the plants reproduction
No hands and no numbers with no tick or tock yet we still call it a clock
Beauty to nothing with one gentle blow seeds land to create a new stock
Elegantly glowing against the warmth of the sun crowning a cotton cap
Transformed into a whirling cloud of white fluff with just a gentle tap