the resilience of the dandelion

I owe this morning's images to Alice, who pointed out this persistent little solitary dandelion when we were on our walk this morning - I would have strolled on by, today, oblivious.  Indeed, there's a chapter in my book that will almost certainly be called "The Resilience of the Dandelion," for they are nothing if not that.  Dandelions are tricky, among the overlooked painted objects in the images I write about, because in fact they often aren't exactly unnoticed - an innocent-looking couple of children are pointing to their own transience by blowing dandelion heads; or a young woman picks dandelion greens for dinner; or one can't actually be sure if those yellow blotches are dandelions, or celandines, or ragwort.  Or unspecified yellow blotches.  I rather favor, though, those almost-overlooked dandelion heads in Millais's Apple Blossom - or Spring - of 1860.

Everyone notices that ominous, gleaming scythe on the right.  But behind it are dandelions: just as suggestive of time passing inexorably, even if not so directly threatening to the girl in (dandelion) yellow who's coquettishly chewing on a blade of grass rather than sip what is doubtless some rather disgusting warmish milk.  Those dandelions - or their descendants - will be there long after she's gone, however.