There goes the neighborhood . . .

Today I decided to walk home the short way. I generally walk home by the longer, less steep path, but the beauty of the day enticed me to take a different route this afternoon. The sun warmed my skin, which it hadn't done for far too long, as I started the trek up to the top of my little mountain. Before I made it very far, I spotted little drops of sunshine dotting the grass. I've always loved Dandelions, so I couldn't help but pick one. I carried it most of the way home, and while doing so I took time to look at it, I mean to really look at it. My Dandelion was imperfect. The little petals were ragged and so did not make a nice circle. I thought to pick another, but the more I looked at mine, the more I realized just how lovely it was. Tiny yellow spears stuck out in all directions and its happy color reminded me of Wordsworth, though, of course, he wrote of a much more acceptable flower. It is a shame that the Dandelion should be so underappreciated. I agree very much with the landscaper, who I once heard say that a weed is merely a misplaced flower. I suppose people hate Dandelions so much because they cannot control them; they start bright and cheerful, grow old, and spread their aged hair across the land. Suddenly a well-manicured lawn is faced with the intrusion of nature, and people cannot, will not, have it. We want no nature in our yards. All the same, I'll happily be the downfall of the neighborhood if only to have my beautiful little weeds.