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The lone weed called me to pluck it from the ground. I closed my eyes as I held the stem between my fingers, picturing my dreams in my mind's eye and then I blew. I opened my eyes and watched the furry hairs scatter into the air, believing with all my heart my wish would come true.
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The lone weed called me to pluck it from the ground. I closed my eyes as I held the stem between my fingers, picturing my dreams in my mind's eye and then I blew. I opened my eyes and watched the furry hairs scatter into the air, believing with all my heart my wish would come true.
The perfect sphere was made up of little tiny hairs extending from a single point. The hairs protruded from that point and extended outward until they became lonely for one another. They began to reach for each other with many more hair-like fingers, tickling each other and reminding each other they are not alone. They stayed this way as if holding their breath - solidified together into a perfect sphere of fuzz. Until the moment came when they were chosen and as the air plucked each of them from each other, they said their goodbyes and flew out into the world to seek their fortune.
The breeze stood still for that moment in time. I gazed down at what was the perfect dandelion gone to seed. What child hasn't plucked one from its stem only to blow its seedlings to the wind. Yet as I looked down upon its perfection such an outcome seemed tragic. Even the wind had stopped itself from causing damage to such a simple thing of beauty.
The feisty weed didn't let my husband's lawn mower win. Little did the weed know that a little girl's four year old hand was just about to add its whimsy to her fairy bouquet.
The dandylion fairies were tucked in tight as the photographer grew closer with her lense. Whispering to each other in feathery voices, to hold still until she moved on to the roses. The rose faires where so much better at stillness. Why could couldn't it have been a child they whispered. Children always blew and let them joyfully fly about. Stillness is ever so hard for dandylion fairies.
Love that, Sarah! :) Great writing, everyone - I think this one is going to be tough for morganna! :D
The thing about dandelions is that they die gloriously. In their youth, their gold fills fields, so that some are prematurely plucked by eager muddy hands and put into canning jars or yogurt cups.
But those that survive the poaching children become purer as time goes on. White as snow, on their last day, only their purpose remains: to be blown, by some otherness, whether it be wind or breath, and to multiply themselves for future fields.
How the wind carries those seeds is not up to it, and the dandelion humbly accepts that, but by rooting firmly in its field or rock, it accomplishes that for which it was sent.
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