Yellow dandelion flowers are poking out of the lawn. They are such bright and cheering little weeds. They have no nasty stickers on them, they don't stink, they don't poison cats. Soon they will grow their delicate seed heads, which children blow with such delight. When I was five or six years old, I wondered why adults had such antipathy for dandelions. I still do. If these pleasant and innocuous little plants vanished, I'd miss them. They are like the persistence of hardy joys, bursting through the regimentation imposed by the dour and unimaginative, the pompous and vain, the pretentious and arrogant. Their small seeds drifting on the summer breeze invariably cheer me with the knowledge that, once again next spring, the puritanical perfection of uniformity will be thwarted by delightful little winks of yellow among the marching green blades of monoculture.