What would the daisy say to the young girl
Plucking petals from her?

He loves me…

One petal lost from her beautiful visage.

He loves me not…

One more lost from the flower of her mind
Rooted in beds of uncertainty and anguish.

We give much weight to four-letter words
As if, like Atlas, they can hold and suspend us
As if they alone can surmise what the meaning entails.

The girl wept when the last petal blew away
And the daisy, in her last moments, replied

You loved me not.