Summer field with white daisies on blue sky

Tiny strips of white, like the little pointing fingers
of a ghostly child, like the sparks of magnesium touching a flame.

I cannot touch the daisies. They cower from me.
My darkness would block out their purity.

A miniature sun peeks out, it is shy.
They have no self esteem but I do not think them common.

They’re merely plentiful. Plentiful pearls –
millions of little saints watching over the green.

I could never bring myself to pick them.
It would be murder, their beauty would die.

They are all that I am not, or could ever be.
I plead with the daisies but they still fear me.

They call them ‘day’s eye’, is it any more than a name?
Can they truly see me, those delicate creatures?

If they should, I would understand their timidity.
I’m half-crazy really, overflowing.

Truly I am too frightful for them.
They never deserved my callousness from the start.

Previously appeared on Creekwalker in 2010.


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