Casually Daisy-ing Around

Casually Daisy-ing Around

A Daisy that you are,
so little,
so freshly bloomed,
that when a starving mountain goat
sees you on the frosted, naked cliffs
and sniffs your well-crafted petals,
decides to starve —
dies.

Oh, would you not
turn your gaze at me
and shower your fragrance —
invite sunlight into my dimly-lit room;

would you not sit at my table-top
with your feet dipped in the water
of my golden vase,
sipping sunshine?

A mere gaze of you —
from you —
has me plucking at the many flowers that I see —
she loves,
she loves me not —
not that I have anything to say to you,
oh Daisy, my dear.

***

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