Dandelion Wine (Green Town, #1)

by Ray Bradbury

and he was a head from which his eyes peered like sentinels through the portcullis of a strange castle out along a bridge, his arm, to those fingers where the bright pennant of blood quivered in the light.

“They run amuck; I let them. Pride of lions in the yard. Stare, and they burn a hole in your retina. A common flower, a weed that no one sees, yes. But for us, a noble thing, the dandelion.”

Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in.

The machine shivered quietly, like a huge dog dreaming in its sleep.

“The first thing you learn in life is you’re a fool. The last thing you learn in life is you’re the same fool.