One Man’s Weed Is Another Man’s Wildflower

“For thee the wonderworking earth puts forth sweet flowers.” — Lucretius

There doesn’t seem to be as many wildflowers this year, but that just makes me appreciate the ones there are all the more.

Apparently, someone from the highway department has been seeding the roadsides with at least two different types of flowers.

Hundreds of tiny bright pink primroses sprang up along Arkansas 45 and U.S. 62. They seem delicate, but they must be strong to survive with only the rainfall to depend on.

Along side the primroses are blooms of a dark burgundy red which I have mistakenly called Indian paintbrush. It turns out that they are actually something called “strawberry clover.”

Indian paintbrush grows in the country west of here, and has blooms that are orange or bright red.

A legend of the Southwest says that a young Indian artist wished to paint, but he had no brushes or colors to work with. At sunset, the colors from the sky were captured by a wildflower with a brush-like shape.

He dipped its point into the water and the colors were magically absorbed by the flower and turned into paint. Then he was able to paint the sunset in all its glory. Thus, the plant received its name: Indian paintbrush.

That eternal friend of florists throughout the world, Queen Anne’s Lace, also called wild carrot, is blooming everywhere. Fragile-looking and seemingly delicate, yet strong, it reminds me of my grandmother's stiffly starched white doilies.

I wish that Queen Anne herself had been so strong. She was the last of the Stuart family to rule England.

She married and tried to produce an heir. Instead, she suffered at least 12 miscarriages and had five children, none of whom survived. She was succeeded by George I.

Looking at wildflowers sometimes leads me into stories from legend and history and makes me think. “To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.” — Wordsworth

It is too early yet for my favorite wildflower, butterfly weed. It won't appear until June and may not last through July. Its velvety dark orange blooms are irresistible to butterflies. Surely, it can't be a weed, despite its name.

Oh well, one man's weed is another man's wildflower.

And that's the view from Antioch Mountain.