The Secret Garden

Once upon an indeterminate time, there grew a secret garden. This was one of those forgotten corners that one only chances upon unwittingly, the sort that thrive unencumbered by the meddling presence of man.

And what a glorious garden it was today. After a long bout of agonising winter, spring had finally sprung! Every flower, every leaf, bumblebee - each threatening to burst into a song of bountiful joy. All but for a lonely dandelion.

Thinking itself unsightly, the dandelion was not really so. Far from it, it had a sprightly viridian stalk, the end of which grew a fuzzy ball of snowy white bristles.

But that was of no comfort to the poor flower. It had not, the radiant disposition of a sunflower, or the tinkering charm of bluebells. Most of all, it was not a rose. Oh what it would give to be a rose! Peel after peel of pillowy, plump petals, exploding into a shade of deep scarlet. Oh, to be the king of the garden, and not a mere thistle!

"Why would anybody want to blow on me now?"

And thus the dandelion stirred from its wandering imagination. He never felt uglier or more undesirable.