Daisies

 In the democracy of daisies
every blossom has one vote.

The question on the ballot is
Does he love me?

If the answer's wrong I try another,
a little sorry about the petals
piling up around my shoes.


Bees are loose in the fields
where daisies wait and hope,
dreaming of the kiss of a proboscis.

We can't possibly understand

what makes us such fools.

I blame the June heat
and everything about him.

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