Her decisions are petals
of a daisy,
plucked off one

by one. It makes her
crazy. She can’t undo what is
done. These gaps make her sour. Too many

for one little flower. All she can do
is hold onto the remaining ones
and hope that the light

of the sun will be forgiving to
a petulant floret, who remains sore at
the ones who tore at her petals

for their own puckish pleasures.
If all is lost
she’ll stick feathers in

where the petals have been. Each one of them
she’ll splay. Then pack up and fly
away