Iced Over
Iced Over

If I had been born in summer I would be beautiful. But I was born in winter and I am iced, cold and torn. Can my wishes still fly? Or are they frozen, waiting for a thaw that may never come?

The morning I spread out my puffs dawned crystal clear, illuminated by the sharp sun of winter and the air was bracingly cold, but exhilarating. Strengthened by roots that always know exactly what to do, I felt that my fire inside could warm anything and keep my tufts ready and primed to airlift dreams wherever the breezes might blow – just in time for Christmas wishes, I thought.

But the sun darkened as the day wore on and the sky greyed. The air grew colder still when the sun set in the west behind dark black clouds. The rain fell, steady and with heavy intent which chilled me to the core, and ruined my perfect halo of botanic hope, my downy head of tufts. Some were torn away and pummeled into the ground. The others stayed with me, firmly determined to weather the storm. When the next day dawned, cold and quiet, I was left with frozen iced globes which clung to the promises that I offer up, as is my nature. In my damaged perfection, can you still see the dreams, the hope, the possibility of bliss? I see it is magnified here, perhaps imperfectly, but still crystal clear if you are willing to take the chance. Please, make a wish!

Please come back tomorrow for a new “Weed Image of the Day” and let me know which ones you like.

We and our weeds are so much more than what we first appear to be.

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