I have read that the daisy is what you find
When you draw a flower, archetypal.
I tried to paint daisies on old wooden stairs of our apartment.
Gloom and dirt made short work of them.
In frustration, I ground them deeper in to the muck.
Some days I forget myself
This Mama with ideas discarded, lost in time.
Intent, wiping muddy hands in the folds of my skirt
I hold the blue, white, yellow to my face.
A hill full of flowers just as they are, nothing fancy.
Self-seeding, self-tending, delicate blooms.
Our nurtured expanse of wild, a conjuring trick.
So simple a luxury, I could have never foreseen.
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