Pity the humble dandelion — scorned, despised.
Spring’s first yellow crocus is eagerly welcomed;
The golden daffodils bring joy.
But when the dandelion shows its sunny face
We rush to the weed spray, to the rusty hoe.
Poor thing! It only meant to cheer.
Yet here I am, Weed-B-Gon in hand …
— Jane Tedder lives in Lawrence.