There she sits
poking holes through daisy stems
feeding the next through to make a chain.
Again and again.
A daisy chain.  It never rained.  It did not need to.
In our hearts it was always summer.  Then.
When we were young and free to roam.  When
we were young.  She still is in her heart.  Her soul
is old,  She is cold. But the memories warm her.
She lies under the daisies and revisits them whenever.
When she can.  While she can.  Trapped in her daisy time.
Not such a crime is it   To be left here.  With her heart.
She sits again and again threading daisies in a chain.
These are lazy days.  Tight nights.  White ways.  Dark fights.
Again and again these are lazy days.