I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o’er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a crowd, a host, of golden
I know, it’s cliche and more than a little granola, but I can’t help but love the vile weeds when they are gathered together in a cheerful mass. One dandelion is a pest. Hundreds scattered across a lawn with their bright yellow glow make me smile. They are just such happy, hardy flowers. Nothing keeps a dandelion down.
Spring always comes late to Halifax. Dandelions are the first real sign that better things are on the way. Even in the pouring rain their peppy attitudes make me feel optimistic for the future.
I have to resist the urge to pick them. As lovely as they appear mixed in with the green of the grass, they soon wilt when placed in a glass on a table. I think perhaps it’s this stubborn wildness that lends them their appeal.
I got a little desperate last evening looking for patches to photograph. There aren’t as many wide spreads of dandelions near my home as in other parts of the city. Shiva was very patient with me.
She was well-rewarded for her posing efforts with her favourite springtime treat: freshly cut grass from neighbourhood lawns.
Apparently the two of us would have made excellent hippies.