When the dandelion bloomed she had inwardly smiled, she was in no hurry to pluck it. Every day on her way in from school she would glance at the yellow flower, as yellow as her morning butter, before opening the door to rest on her couch. Then one evening, as the days waned and the temperature cooled, she noticed it had become a fluffy sphere and she stopped. Finally it was a dandelion clock. She picked it and took in a deep breath. With each puff from her lungs she counted forwards by an hour. By “five o’clock” the stalk was empty and the seeds were in the wind, delicately carried away in the late summer air.
Dandelions are like people; vibrant and cheerful in their youth. But when they get old they become white and wispy until the day when their souls float away into the wind.