These are wild yellow “highway” daises that replant themselves effortlessly like dandelions.


Some people see them as a weed, others a flower.

Enjoy this poem by my grandfather Philip J. Webster.


Out into the yard she goes,

Armed with pick-ax, spades and hoes.

She halts before a tangled mass,

She’s out to scalp the wiregrass.

She smiles and wades into the fray.

It seems the battle’s all her way.

With fork, she gives a skillful thrust,

One more wiregrass bites the dust.

She throws the corpses into piles,

Her face is lit with radiant smiles.

Then the battle starts anew,

For even yet, she’s far from through.

She still is feeling very strong,

But nevertheless the grass is long.

Many reserves are ranged in back,

And now withstand each new attack.

She charges the line with might and main,

But only a little does she gain.

And so the battle round and round,

Through all, the wiregrass holds it ground.

At length into the house she goes,

With heavy tread and a nice red rose.

Her head is hot, her hands are sore,

The wiregrass has won once more.

Philip J. Webster – from the book Dreamers Dreaming Dreams

 Lesson:  Even in difficult times you can find something beautiful.