Вино из одуванчиков

           "Hey!"

           Theboysbent,smiling.Theypickedthegoldenflowers.Theflowersthatfloodedtheworld,drippedofflawnsontobrickstreets,tappedsoftlyatcrystalcellarwindowsandagitatedthemselvessothatonallsideslaythedazzleandglitterofmoltensun.

           "Everyyear,"saidGrandfather."Theyrunamuck;Iletthem.Prideoflionsintheyard.Stare,andtheyburnaholeinyourretina.Acommonflower,aweedthatnoonesees,yes.Butforus,anoblething,thedandelion."

           So,pluckedcarefully,insacks,thedandelionswerecarriedbelow.Thecellardarkglowedwiththeirarrival.Thewinepressstoodopen,cold.Arushofflowerswarmedit.Thepress,replaced,itsscrewrotated,twirledbyGrandfather,squeezedgentlyonthecrop.

           "There...so..."

           Thegoldentide,theessenceofthisfinefairmonthran,thengushedfromthespoutbelow,tobecrocked,skimmedofferment,andbottledincleanketchupshakers,thenrankedinsparklingrowsincellargloom.

           Dandelionwine.

           Thewordsweresummeronthetongue.Thewinewassummercaughtandstoppered.AndnowthatDouglasknew,hereallyknewhewasalive,andmovedturningthroughtheworldtotouchandseeitall,itwasonlyrightandproperthatsomeofhisnewknowledge,someofthisspecialvintagedaywouldbesealedawayforopeningonaJanuarydaywithsnowfallingfastandthesununseenforweeksormonthsandperhapssomeofthemiraclebythenforgottenandinneedofrenewal.