Weeds And Wildflowers Quotes

One person's weed is another person's wildflower.

It is easier to tell a person what life is not, rather than to tell them what it is. A child understands weeds that grow from lack of attention, in a garden. However, it is hard to explain the wild flowers that one gardener calls weeds, and another considers beautiful ground cover.

A poor old Widow in her weeds Sowed her garden with wild-flower seeds; Not too shallow, and not too deep, And down came April -- drip -- drip -- drip. Up shone May, like gold, and soon Green as an arbour grew leafy June. And now all summer she sits and sews Where willow herb, comfrey, bugloss blows, Teasle and pansy, meadowsweet, Campion, toadflax, and rough hawksbit; Brown bee orchis, and Peals of Bells; Clover, burnet, and thyme she smells; Like Oberon's meadows her garden is Drowsy from dawn to dusk with bees. Weeps she never, but sometimes sighs, And peeps at her garden with bright brown eyes; And all she has is all she needs -- A poor Old Widow in her weeds.

It was amazing how flowers could grow in the damnedest places, but the Devlin weed patch had sprouted quite a wildflower in Faith.

I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them accountable, to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a part of every tribute they can't own. That Rue was more than a piece in their Games. And so am I. "A few steps into the woods grows a bank of wildflowers. Perhaps they are really weeds of some sort, but they have blossoms in beautiful shades of violet and yellow and white. I gather an armful and come back to Rues's side. Slowly, one stem at a time, I decorate her body in the flowers. Covering the ugly wound. Wreathing her face. Weaving her hair with bright colors. "They'll have to show it. Or, even if they choose to turn the cameras elsewhere at this moment, they'll have to bring them back when they collect the bodies and everyone will see her then and know I did it. I step back and take a last look at Rue. She really could be asleep in that meadow after all. ""Bye, Rue," I whisper. I press the three middle fingers of my left hand against my lips and hold them out in her direction. Then I walk away without looking back.

But I also know that even a weed, cultivated with care, might eventually yield a wildflower.

To him, she was like a flower that bloomed in the snow. Thriving under conditions in which nothing could grow. To some, she was a weed born benighted. But in his eyes, she was a wildflower with a soul ignited.

An embroidery circle takes up a spot in the middle of the counter. I rush toward it and pick it up. My heart rate speeds up in my chest as I check out the most beautiful design I’ve ever seen. There’s no mistaking who made this. Santiago crafted a field of wildflowers, making up every color of the rainbow. It’s hands-down the best gift anyone has given me. A wobbly looking quote takes up the top of the design. Where most people see weeds, I only see you—my beautiful wildflower, untamed and free.

In a world of weeds, she was a wildflower. In a world of prose, her voice was poetry, In a world of darkness, she was light, In a world of indifference, she cared, In a world of flaws, she was perfect, In my life of nothing, she was my world.

I always wondered how a wildflower can be so soft when it is stepped on and covered by weeds. It is because the earth has covered it in boundless, endless love. I am a wildflower; there is no such thing as being tamed; we take what is given and somehow find our way.

Where most people see weeds, I only see you—my beautiful wildflower, untamed and free.

There was once a town in the heart of America where all life seemed to live in harmony with its surroundings. The town lay in the midst of a checkerboard of prosperous farms, with fields of grain and hillsides of orchards where, in spring, white clouds of bloom drifted above the green fields. In autumn, oak and maple and birch set up a blaze of color that flamed and flickered across a backdrop of pines. Then foxes barked in the hills and deer silently crossed the fields, half hidden in the mists of the fall mornings. Along the roads, laurel, viburnum, and alder, great ferns and wildflowers delighted the traveler's eye through much of the year. Even in winter the roadsides were places of beauty, where countless birds came to feed on the berries and on the seed heads of the dried weeds rising above the snow. The countryside was, in fact, famous for the abundance and variety of its bird life, and when the flood of migrants was pouring through in spring and fall people traveled from great distances to observe them. Others came to fish the streams, which flowed clear and cold out of the hills and contained shady pools where trout lay. So it had been from the days many years ago when the first settlers raised their homes, sank their wells, and built their barns. Then a strange blight crept over the area and everything began to change. Some evil spell had settled on the community: mysterious maladies swept the flocks of chickens, the cattle, and sheep sickened and died. Everywhere was a shadow of death. The farmers spoke of much illness among their families. In the town the doctors had become more and more puzzled by new kinds of sickness appearing among their patients. There had been sudden and unexplained deaths, not only among adults but even among children whoe would be stricken suddently while at play and die within a few hours. There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example--where had they gone? Many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. The feeding stations in the backyards were deserted. The few birds seen anywhere were moribund; they trembled violently and could not fly. It was a spring without voices. On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices there was no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh. On the farms the hens brooded, but no chicks hatched. The farmers complained that they were unable to raise any pigs--the litters were small and the young survived only a few days. The apple trees were coming into bloom but no bees droned among the blossoms, so there was no pollination and there would be no fruit. The roadsides, once so attractive, were now lined with browned and withered vegetation as though swept by fire. These, too, were silent, deserted by all living things. Even the streams were not lifeless. Anglers no longer visited them, for all the fish had died. In the gutters under the eaves and between the shingles of the roofs, a white granular powder still showed a few patches; some weeks before it had fallen like snow upon the roofs and the lawns, the fields and streams. No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of life in this stricken world. The people had done it to themselves.

I tried to turn my heart to the living, to the place I was, but putting seed in land not owned by me or my family seemed alien. The sandy, gray-white soil looked like dirty beach sand, not fit for growing anything. It smelled like dust. Yet weeds and trees and wildflowers grew along the roads. When we drove into town, we passed dense, impenetrable woods and fields of corn, peas, and peppers. Such new combinations of seemingly poor soil and happy flora puzzled me. Everywhere I went, I picked up the dirt, examining it for clues. Bringing anything out of such soil would require a whole new language on my part. I imagined there must be something richer and darker under the gray sand, or some trick the farmers all knew. Trick or no trick, what I had always been able to do well now seemed inaccessible. Still, I searched the yard around our house for the best spot to plant my fall garden.

Spring has come with little prelude, like turning a rocky corner into a valley, and gardens and borders have blossomed suddenly lush with daffodils, irises, tulips. Even the derelict houses of Les Marauds are touched with color, but here the ordered gardens have run to rampant eccentricity; a flowering elder growing from the balcony of a house overlooking the water, a roof carpeted with dandelions, violets poking out of a crumbling facade. Once-cultivated plants have reverted to their wild state, small leggy geraniums thrusting between hemlock-umbels, self-seeded poppies scattered at random and bastardized from their original red to orange to palest mauve. A few days' sunshine is enough to coax them from sleep; after the rain they stretch and raise their heads toward the light. Pull out a handful of these supposed weeds, and there are sages and irises, pinks and lavenders, under the docks and ragwort.

I was talking about you, my little dandelion." I faked shock. "A dandelion? Are you comparing me to a weed?" "Ah-ah," she chastised. "Don't you know the saying about how some see a weed, while others see a wildflower? Dandelions are wildflowers, and they're the picture of survival, resilience, determination. Just like my Emme.

There was this thin meandering creek that wound past the old summer cottage. And sliding down the slight bank, I would gently pull aside the scattering of stalky weeds and elegant wildflowers that edged the flowing rivulet of crystalline water. And there, in that oh so tiny and forgotten place, a whole world of living things danced in the waters, frolicked on the scattering of assorted pebbles, and gingerly crawled on the emerald moss that generously lined both banks. And staring at the wonder of that tiny, forgotten place, I thought that life is not about grand destinations. Rather, it’s about realizing that we are already in a destination.

A dandelion is often considered a weed, but it transforms into a flower when placed in a bouquet of wildflowers or if it’s a gift from your two-year-old child.

A dandelion is often considered a weed, but it transforms into a flower when placed in a bouquet of wildflowers or if it’s a gift from your two-year-old child. Plants exist objectively in nature, but flowers and weeds require a perceiver in order to exist. They are perceiver-dependent categories.

One man's weed is another woman's wildflower, I reflect, as I wield the rake and count the creatures displaced by the mowing.

The graves were overgrown with weeds but they were still visible on a rise above the river. The crosses were rotted but the stones were there. I spent the better part of the afternoon at Mangel’s grave. I told him about Buck. They weren’t the best of friends but I figured he’d want to know. I talked about Moze too. If Mangel hadn’t showed up when he did I wouldn’t be telling this tale. I got the better half of that partnership. It was early for wildflowers but I found some yellow columbines and laid them on his grave. I’d asked Carlos once about dogs in heaven. He figured that if there was a heaven, dogs had as much right to it as anybody and more right than most. It was heaven that he was less sure of. He talked about freedom and being fully alive instead. He told me once that he thought hell was more a state of mind than a real place. Believe he felt the same about heaven. I put in a word for Mangel. Figured it couldn’t hurt. I told him that if there was a heaven I’d look for his sign and I’d follow the tracks through eternity till I found him.

One person's weed is another person's wildflower." ~

Next, I add a layer of Queen Anne's lace, its white clusters representative of the bridal veil worn by Mother and Bitsy, never by me. I can hear Mother's voice, teaching me that the flower is considered a weed by many, but she added it to her wildflower garden intentionally. She claims it has "a rebel heart, its snowflake appearance proof it was never meant to be a summer bloom at all." With its dark-purple center, this renegade flower represents all things feminine: delicate lace, the symbolic purity of snow, the red stain of suffering, and the long, deep taproot that keeps her growing against all odds.

Anna Kate I was lost. Truthfully, it wasn’t the worst place to lose one’s way. I stood in the middle of a rutted golden-orange dirt-and-gravel lane riddled with fissures that resembled cracks on an overbaked gingerbread cake. A breeze swooping through the valley cut the humidity and brought with it a burst of pure, clean air swirling with pine scent. Soaring oaks, pines, and black walnut trees cast long shadows. Butterflies skimmed colorful wildflowers standing brightly among the tall weeds and grasses that hugged the lane. I often found peace in the woods, thanks to Zee. For as long as I could remember, whenever she would visit, she’d find a way to sneak me out to the woods to teach me the magic of nature. She lovingly shared how plants, shrubs, trees, and flowers offered alternatives to traditional medicine—all things my mother had also forbidden. “Callows have always been healers and nurturers, Anna Kate, but you must remember that there are many ways to doctor people, physically and emotionally.

Dear Secrets of the Earth, You are a place beyond belief. You are home to many, but only a few are able to understand you. When the wind is whooshing, it sounds like wind chimes. When the breeze offers its sweet gestures, it opens my heart and soul to be still and let everything—just be. The sky looks like a painting. It is a limitless portrait! When the streams collide, you can see the reflection of the sea of clouds. When the wind is whistling, it calms the meadow of the thoughts that form in my mind. The night air has such a deep definition of the earthbound because everything is asleep as it is firmly attached to the earth without movement—just resting to prepare for the next day. I always wondered how a wildflower can be so soft when it is stepped on and covered by weeds. It is because the earth has covered it in boundless, endless love. I am a wildflower; there is no such thing as being tamed; we take what is given and somehow find our way. I’ve been to thirteen homes in all. Yet, I still somehow and somewhere let love shine through the darkest hours, which lead to days. However, just like the wildflower, I am still here. Dear Secrets of the Earth, what are your golden rules? Is it to just go with the flow? Love endlessly without regret? Live and learn from your mistakes? Or is it something simple, such as continue to have faith while we reach for the stars? If so, could you give me a boost? Thank you for your company.

There was a trim, tidy quality to the vegetation here, one that the Lees were unused to, so different was it from the sprawling, encroaching mangroves, the tree roots that destabilized the foundations of their houses, the slimy moss that crept over everything left outside. Here, the dead leaves were swept up as soon as they dared fall; the grass was permitted to grow only to a certain height. Wildflowers and weeds were rare, springing only occasionally from the wet cracks in the rounded walls of wide storm drains.

As he began to strum his harp, he filled his mind with images of earth. Old crumbling stones and tangled grasses and wildflowers and weeds and saplings that put down deep roots, growing into mighty trees. The color of dirt, the scent of it. How it felt clutched in the hollow of one’s palm. The voice of branches swaying in the breeze, and the slope of the earth as it rose and fell, faithful and steady. Jack closed his eyes and began to sing. He didn’t want to see the spirits manifest, but he heard the grass hissing near his knees, and he heard the tree boughs groaning above him, and he heard the scratch of stone, as if two were being rubbed together. When he heard Adaira’s soft gasp, Jack opened his eyes. The spirits were forming themselves, gathering around him to listen. He played and sang and watched as the trees became maidens with long arms and hair made of leaves. The grass and pennywort knotted themselves into what looked to be mortal lads, small and green. The stones found their faces like old men waking from a long dream. The wildflowers broke their stems and gathered into the shape of a woman with long dark hair and eyes the color of honeysuckle, her skin purple as the heather that bloomed on the hills. Yellow gorse crowned her, and she waited beside the Earie Stone, whose face was still forming, craggy and ancient. As Jack played Lorna’s ballad he felt as if he was slowly sinking into the earth. His limbs were becoming heavy, and he drooped like a flower wilting beneath a fierce sun. It was like the sensation of falling asleep. He swore he saw daisies blooming from his fingertips, and every time he plucked his strings the petals broke away but regrew just as swiftly. And his ankles…he couldn’t move them, the tree roots had begun to take hold of him. His hair was turning into grass, green and long and tangled, and as the song ended he struggled to remember who he was, that he was mortal, a man. Someone was coming to him, bright as a fallen star, and he felt her hands on his face, blissfully cold. “Please,” the woman said, but not to him. She beseeched the wildflower spirit with her long dark hair and crown of vibrant gorse. “Please, this man belongs to me. You cannot claim him.” “Why, mortal woman,” one of the pennywort lads said from the ground, his words raspy as summer hay falling to a scythe. “Why did you sit so far away from him? We thought he sang to be taken by us.” Jack snapped out of the haze. Adaira was kneeling beside him, her hand shifting to his arm. He was stricken to see that he had truly been turning into the earth—grass, flowers, and roots. His harp clattered from his tingling hands; he struggled to breathe as he watched his body return to him. “He is mine, and he played to bring you forth by my command,” Adaira said calmly. “I long to speak to you, spirits of the earth.

Perpetual Care The Perpetual Care fees for my mom’s cemetery plot got embezzled and now the overgrown weeds and wildflowers have their day. My mom never wore makeup, so I must believe she’s happier without the manicured grass. It’s the random rocks of memory that spill over her headstone she smiles upon. It is memory, not maintenance, that defines perpetual love; memories that can never be overgrown.

Common boys fight with wooden swords, too, only theirs are sticks and broken branches. Egg, these men may seem fools to you. They won’t know the proper names for bits of armor, or the arms of the great Houses, or which king it was who abolished the lord’s right to the first night… but treat them with respect all the same. You are a squire born of noble blood, but you are still a boy. Most of them will be men grown. A man has his pride, no matter how lowborn he may be. You would seem just as lost and stupid in their villages. And if you doubt that, go hoe a row and shear a sheep, and tell me the names of all the weeds and wildflowers in Wat’s Wood.

At last I came upon the hedge maze. Far from the warm circles of light cast by torch and lamp, the leaves and twigs here were wedged in a silver lacework of starlight and shadow. The entrance was framed by two large trees, their branches still bare of any new growth. In the darkness, they seemed less like garden posts marking the way into the labyrinth than two silent sentinels guarding the doorway to the underworld. Shapes writhed in the shadows beyond the archway of bramble and vine, both inviting and intimidating. Yet I was not frightened. The hedge maze smelled like the forest outside the inn, a deep green scent of growth and decay, where life and death were intermingled. A familiar scent. A welcoming scent. The scent of home. Removing my mask, I crossed the threshold, letting darkness swallow me whole. There were no torches or candles lit upon the paths, and neither moonlight nor starlight penetrated the dense bramble. Yet my footing along these paths was sure, every part of me attuned to the wildness around me. Unlike the maze of Schönbrunn Palace, a meticulously manicured and man-made construction, this labyrinth breathed. Nature creeped in along the edges, reclaiming groomed, orderly, and civilized corridors into a twisting tangle of tunnels and tracks, weeds and wildflowers. Paths grew vague, roots unruly, branches untamed. Somewhere deep in the labyrinth, I could hear the giggles and gasps of illicit encounters in the shrubbery. I was careful of my step, lest I trip over a pair of trysting lovers, but when I came upon no one else, I let myself fall into a meditative state of mind. I wandered the recursive spirals of the hedge maze, turn after turn after turn, feeling a measure of calm for the first time in a long time.

Knotweed by Rosa Jamali I've turned to an annual plant, shielded and armed, from the genus of hollyhocks and broad leaves Whole five-thousand-year history is turning over my head It was the moment that you were buried with no shroud And I'm the weeds and icicles of this land, … Had been climbing over the flames, it was a black ladder, burning my sole feet It was the moment that I had chopped my heart, you had sucked my blood in that woundless bowl Had been growing like a wildflower, had been living for millions of years In Syriac over my body: Nail-shaped herbs had written some letters. I'm the genius of thorns with wounded heels of thousands of miles travelling in the oasis My blistered feet, weary and my parched lips Shattered by the mountain ranges I had been fighting with my claws My roots are extended with the fluent liquid in the vessels Lilacs had grown over my arms and now I've turned to the ivy as if burning in the fire I left my name on the land I stepped, … And who's this weeping human child, lamenting two thousand years in my arms? Still weeping? ! Always weeping? ! I've been raising this child for six thousand years I've grown this Persian hero to send him to the battlefield Breastfed him And he has grown out of my eyes This extreme light which has blinded me… (TRANSLATED From original Persian to English by the Poet)