That was the year that daisies
all decided to perform flawlessly,
to help humanity along its faltering way.
Every one, its petals plucked
to rhythmic chants:
She loves me, she loves me not,
would tell you that she loves you.
He loves me, he loves me not,
would tell you that he loves you.
It was her favorite flower, you know.
Garlands framed the altar where
we said our last good byes.
Now this lavender bloom,
lifted from the roadside,
has graced my table for a week.
Drawn into its lonely self at night,
it flares to fullness at daybreak
atop a dime store, Ming inspired,
thin-stem porcelain vase.
I pluck its petals, one by one.
She loves me, she loves me not.
She loves me, she loves me not.
..............She loves me.
© by Edward Hujsak.
Used with the author's permission.
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