Deborah Lipp

I like dandelions. I do. I mean, not when I’m trying to grow a delicate herb garden and their mad hot root systems are invading from like, three houses down. But I like their little yellow awakefulness.

Sometimes it’s hard to be conscious of the seasons changing. I do the rituals, and yet I don’t feel the passage of time. Or maybe it’s that spring is always a surprise. Maybe it’s that winter is a hunkering down, a forgetting that there is spring.

And February was so long that it lasted into March
And found us walking a path alone together.
You stopped and pointed and you said, “Thats a crocus,”
And I said, “Whats a crocus?” and you said, “Its a flower,”
I tried to remember, but I said, “Whats a flower?”
You said, “I still love you.”

A crocus is nice. It’s a flower. It emerges. And I feel…a glimmer. Like maybe it’ll happen. But y’know, maybe it won’t. At Spring Equinox, we do a ritual where we plant seeds, and I see my sprouts emerging from their ritual pot, and I think, that’s nice. That’s a sign.

But then I see dandelions.

Maybe because they are unwanted, unplanted, unloved. So stubborn in their bright lovelines. Look at me, I’m here anyway. And did you notice how YELLOW I am? I’m YELLOW. And there’s never one. It always starts as three, and that’s before it really gets going. Yesterday, I saw dandelions next to my ritual seed pot, and I thought that was nice. Today, I saw hundreds of dandelions all along the Palisades Parkway. Thousands. A sea of yellow parkway. A profusion.

And today I know that spring is a true thing, and not a glimmer. Thank you, dandelions.