I can't walk by a crowd of them without remembering the way we used to curl their stems, hold the blossoms under our chins to feel the yellow glow (which meant we liked butter) and how when we weren't looking they mysteriously changed themselves into fluffy seed heads (a butterfly must have informed them, we thought) and what fun it was taking a big birthday breath to blow all the tassels into the sky. Even late in summer there were still enough blossoms around to fill the thistle baskets we made to the brim with gold.

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