๐ ๐ก๐๐ง๐๐๐ฎ๐ฅ ๐๐จ๐ซ ๐๐๐ง๐โ๐ฌ ๐๐ฎ๐๐ ๐ข๐
Groundsel, ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฃ๐ข๐๐๐๐๐๐ , is not a plant that asks to be admired. It turns up where the ground has been opened, scuffed, or simply neglected. A plant of margins. Of passing.
Youโll recognise it by those small yellow cylinders, never quite opening into a proper flower, and the black-tipped bracts that give each head a slightly singed look. It does not linger. It arrives, flowers, seeds, and is gone again before most have noticed.
And yet, I knew it well.
As a boy, I would pick it for Nanaโs budgie. A small handful, gathered, brought indoors and pushed through the bars. Joey would set to work at once.
It speaks to me of a time past, when the margins were not ignored. Passed by, perhaps, but still inspected, still respected for what they offered.