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The first dandelion

April 14, 2010

Time to go outside and pick a thousand parachutes.

The First Dandelion
by Walt Whitman
Simple and fresh and fair from winter’s close emerging,
As if no artifice of fashion, business, politics, had ever been,
Forth from its sunny nook of shelter’d grass – innocent, golden, calm
as the dawn,
The spring’s first dandelion shows its trustful face.

9 Comments leave one →
  1. April 14, 2010 5:44 am

    Wow, these images and words make it so easy to see the sheer beauty in what I have come to regard as an awful, invincible weed I must battle every stinking year. Maybe I’ll pick one tomorrow and make a wish (or three) … germinating seeds be darned! =>

  2. April 14, 2010 11:53 am

    Spectacular, from the photos to the words. I’m moved.

  3. April 14, 2010 12:48 pm

    These photos are lovely! And the poem is wonderful as well; I love Walt Whitman. I’ve never looked at dandelions in quite this way – thank you!

  4. April 14, 2010 2:14 pm

    Beautiful! Just with these striking images and a choice Whitman verse, you have turned something so ordinary into something so special. That is a gift.

  5. April 14, 2010 6:36 pm

    “The spring’s first dandelion shows its trustful face.”
    Sigh. Thanks, Leslie. Love this.

  6. April 15, 2010 8:38 pm

    Beautiful images and words. I thought dandelions were daisies when I was a child. I use to pick them for my great-grandmother and she would put them in bud vases all around her room, cherished them. It wasn’t until I was older that I found out they were weeds, but I still think of them as “yellow daises for my nana”.

  7. April 17, 2010 6:45 pm

    Well, that’s just about perfect, isn’t it?

    Thanks, Leslie, for sharing this glorious poem.

  8. April 19, 2010 12:21 am

    I often think of the day (whenever it was) that dandelions go from flowers to weeds. It’s good to see that you are still in the flowers camp.

  9. April 22, 2010 3:39 am

    My little boys picked “bandylions” tonight as they waited through their big brother’s baseball practice. I sat on the ground and the grass tickled my feet. I felt a breeze and watched the curious smiles of my little ones. Sometimes perfect is so easy. Why, then, does it feel so hard when we think about it?

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