I pluched a petal as white as a dove.
"She likes me," I exclaimed, a glint of hope
occupying my eyes.
Another dainty petal plucked.
"She likes me not," I pouted, my lips twitched
in disappointment.
The last petal plucked with the delicacy of silk.
"She likes me!" I smiled.
Oh, Marguerite, she must like me!
The daisy said so!