Daisy: ‘if it was you, and you know it, please, don’t say a word’ – nickel creek

her dead little leaves
cried wolf, reborn,
while sun-rays danced
on the dripping dew
of her white petals –

warming morning,
drooping daisies
would keep her arms
from wilting,
wilting away,
while she sang

of darker times
when
bees buzzed
around the heart
of her yellow-melting,
stolen seed.

she stood tall,
alone,
her arms out-stretched
as shadows
dug into her petals
to define
beauty restored.

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