Daisy.
A little flower with white petals that sometimes turn pink.
An orange centre that withstands the constant extraction of those petals,
with the pang and echo of tiny voice shouting
          “He loves me; he loves me not!
Often mistaken for a ****.

Daisy.
A girl who winces with insecurity
every time the nearest dandelion clock is
plucked from the soiled earth around her.
She watches with wet, reddened eyes
as she is paralysed
and unable to stop the careless children blow away Time,
as if it were some sort of lark,
seed by seed.

Daisy.
A witness to the exposure of stalks and leaves alike;
a veteran of the unwanted embrace and, indeed,
the wanton thieving of petals and memories and silence and voice
combined.

She is swaying but explicitly not
bending to the wind.
She stands her ground and she has
blossomed.