Dandelions. A harbinger of summer.
Aren’t these blooms lovely? Bright yellow wings destined to transform, like a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, into fluffy white feathers the softest breeze soon will cast to the four winds.
Blossoms labeled weeds, as if they are repulsive, unwelcome intruders. Shameful blemishes on the perfectly manicured green veneer.
Who made that decision?
Maybe dandelions can never be daisies. Still, I played “he loves me, he loves me not,” plucking each golden talon one by one, forever fearing the answer. Countless garlands made to wrap around my throat, stifling its inner cry. Remembering that tacky ooze from freshly snapped stems, stinging my eyes with their bitter tears.
Pesky, those dandelions. Tenacious. Roots running deep into the earth. Refusing to budge, they seem to say, “You can’t oust me from my home and toss me away with the garbage. I belong here.”
What if we ceded the will to dominate, to vanquish the recalcitrant invaders? Embraced their right to exist, no less valued than our cherished blades of grass.
Doesn’t their sunny disposition cheer up the place?
I say, let them live.