there is something breathtaking about the way the dandelions glow, sun shining, in a fat stripe along both sides of farm to market road, something that makes it so hard to believe the dandelion is considered a weed. sure, it's hard to make them "go away" entirely. their root systems dig deeply into the most barren landscapes, making the dandelion a bit of a renegade, a survivor, popping up again and again, seemingly strengthened by every futile attempt to dig it up and weaken its spirit, sneakily breaking off at the root to leave just a bit behind.
it's one of the first flowers to bloom around here, and a much needed burst of yellow among the drab washed out greys of winter. i've seen many a honey bee collecting pollen from those blooms, and it makes me wonder why i ever pull them out in the first place. we as humans are illogical like that, i suppose. someone decided one day that the dandelion was a pest to their immaculate lawn of uninterrupted velvet green, and from that day forward, billions upon billions of dollars have gone into chemical potions designed to decimate the dandelions. for what reason? some sort of manifest destiny, some lofty ideal of perfection. but to me, the dandelion epitomizes perfection. i always think to myself, when the world goes to shit, when shit hits the fan, it's the dandelions, the thistles and the morning glory, the rats and crows and seagulls, the pests and underdogs of nature that will make it through alive.