Emily Dickinson, in one of her poems, startles and then amuses with her description of frost as “the blond assassin”.  (The initial image and unfolding drama of this phrase gives me shivers.) The words tickled my mind (and strengthened, once again, my belief that poetry should companion us) as I looked out over the masses of dandelions in my garden and dubbed them “blond marauders”.

Haiku for dandelions.

Come, blond marauders,

Pillage preconceived notions

Of ‘only a weed.’

There are dozens of them.  I pick the seed heads before they breezily drift toward some unwelcoming ground.  But I am lucky in my seclusion by fence and trees and brambles and bushes so that there is not a neighbour peering with alarm into my more-meadow-than-lawn and suggesting a death-to-broadleaf product.

Perhaps if dandelions sold for a dollar a stem in a florist shop they would be appreciated for the beauties they are.  But claiming that price would negate their abundance: they would have to be rare to cause that expense. It seems that too much of a muchness overwhelms our awareness and we must focus on the part to truly see the whole.

In any case, dandelions would not put up with being marketed.  Perky and upright in their natural state they soon wilt when picked.  Are you not also grinning at the memory of a child offering so joyously a fistful of the golden blossoms and then being so dismayed an hour or so later at their drooped appearance in the very best vase.

Children and dandelions and – warts suddenly sprung to mind.  Of course – the milk from the plucked stem of a dandelion is supposed to cure warts.  I’d forgotten that until just now and a lovely specimen on my knuckle will get prompt attention come morning.  Or is it celandine for warts and dandelion for freckles?  Hmmmm.

Dandelions, however, need not justify their existence with usefulness.  Their eye appeal suffices.

In one section of the garden a glorious group is chumming with bluebells and bringing dabs of sun to mix with earth and sky.  Under the laurels they have already appeared in a bunch for the mental picking.  They are marching in a line in the section of land suggesting a dry stream bed, perhaps affirming the vision.  And the rescued pulpit under the cherry tree (a podium for the sermons within) has several moppet heads sprawling at its base.  Dandelions.  Here, there, everywhere.

Having never seen a blossom or seed head open, and having spent much time in hopeful gazing, I took myself off to the library to do some research.  Headed right for the children’s department.  Found the most delightful book with unclouded information and exquisite photographs. Now I know.

The closed-up buds with no frills showing will open into flowers.  The closed-up buds with bits of stuffing sticking out will open into seed heads and there can be up to 180 seeds on each stalk.  Each seed has that marvellous parachute to catch the wind and carry it to a new home.  Each seed is barbed and can stick on man or beast and hitch a ride even further.  I delight to think I might have carried a Fernwood native to Fairfield or Vic West. Oh, it’s okay, no need to thank me.  Chuckle.

But how do they open.  I mean, how long does it take.  I have never managed to catch them in the act.  Wouldn’t it be stupendous.  It must be an immediate popping open because a gradual opening would have been noticed by now considering how much time I spend staring.  Perhaps it happens in the dark.  Perhaps I will finally experience the performance if I include dandelion perusal with moth gazing.  Wish me luck!

July 2008 Earth and Sky

July 2023. I just googled and asked for a time lapse photography of a dandelion going from flower to seed and I found it!!!!!!!!!!!!   Incredible……