Overnight, a field of yellow and white.
Dent-de-lion, “lion’s tooth” for leaf not flower.
Years ago, blossoms boiled, yeast, sugar, slices
of orange and lemon fermented, and then
we would siphon summer off the lees.
One of my favorite books when I was younger was Ray Bradbury‘s novel of summer wonderment, Dandelion Wine.
“And there, row upon row, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of dust, would stand the dandelion wine. Peer through it at the wintry day – the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabitated with bird, leaf, and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And peering through, color sky from iron to blue.
Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in”
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine