Global Graffiti - Missoula, Montana

"Weeds are nature's graffiti." ~ Janice Maeditere

Weedy Brights - Missoula, Montana

Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.  - A.A. Milne (1882–1956)

Prickly Sphere, Charlo, Montana

“So it is with life. 

Those thorns, the prickly problems of life, cause us to strive to rise above them and then, as we do, we learn. 

We learn to exercise true compassion, true kindness - or the thorns, if we let them, cause us to brood, to mourn over our trials. Then we plant the seeds of bitterness, hate, and ruin - weeds. 

We may reach up for the rose or down to the weeds...the weeds in life that tangle us, strangle us, and cause us to lose hope.” - James Michael Pratt

End-Of-Summer Dandelion, Missoula, Montana

There‘s been some chit chat lately on Another Porch about the book “Dandelion Wine“, which inspired me to revisit this all-time favourite story. Perhaps this quote will provoke you to check it out from your local library.
  “Lilacs on a bush are better than orchids. And dandelions and devil grass are better! Why? Because they bend you over and turn you away from all the people in the town for a little while and sweat you and get you down where you remember you got a nose again. And when you’re all to yourself that way, you’re really proud of yourself for a little while; you get to thinking things through, alone. Gardening is the handiest excuse for being a philosopher. Nobody guesses, nobody accuses, nobody knows, but there you are, Plato in the peonies, Socrates force-growing his own hemlock. A man toting a sack of blood manure across his lawn is kin to Atlas letting the world spin easy on his shoulder.”
― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine

SnowFlower, East Missoula, Montana

“My mother always called me an ugly weed, so I never was aware of anything until I was older. 
Plain girls should have someone telling them they are beautiful. Sometimes this works miracles.”
-Hedy Lamarr (1913-2000; Great beauty of MGM’s Golden Age)

Foxtails, Missoula, Montana

You may know this wayside grass by another name, but we’ve always called them foxtails.
(Unrelated Side Note: Grass by another name still must be mowed.)

Their silken strands were irresistibly close to hand during childhood field walks. Even now, I find their smooth texture and subtle shimmer mesmerising. Diving into this childlike wonder, I stop to admire their quiet movement in the breeze, and stoop to gently pull the glossy tails through my grasp.

Weed or Wildflower?, Missoula, Montana

These bright, buttery blooms scatter the hillside sloping down to the river trail below Missoula’s Orange Street bridge.