I hemmed and hawed and finally pulled about 50 thistles from the lawn, but got lazy and left the ones nearest to the fence for another day; this morning, they looked like this:
Shit. NOT thistles, but poppies. Glorious, weird, opiate poppies.
Honestly, nothing has the right to be this absurdly beautiful. I half hate myself for my weeding zeal -- I've run out of dandelions and prickly lettuce and buckhorn plantain, and I moved on to the "thistles" that had managed to escape the purge of other weeds.
Sigh.
"Mr. Sendak was at his finest a shtetl Blake, portraying a luminous world, at once lovely and dreadful, suspended between wakefulness and dreaming. In so doing, he was able to convey both the propulsive abandon and the pervasive melancholy of children’s interior lives."
here
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